When Heroes Go Down They Go Down Fast
by buffyaddict
Summary: The war is at hand. It’s demon against man and we’re losing the fight. The special children are wreaking havoc across the land, side by side with demons. Can Dean save Sam? Lots of angst. Spoilers through season 2 ep BuaBS. Violence and bad language.
1. Chapter 1

Title: When Heroes Go Down (They Go Down Fast) 1/?

Author: buffyaddict13

Summary: The war is at hand. It's demon against man and we're losing the fight. The special children are wreaking havoc across the land, side by side with demons. Dean is on a desperate hunt to save his brother while leading a small band of survivors to a final showdown.

Disclaimer: I own nothing winchestery. Alas. Alack. It's all you, kripke.

* * *

_There are children standing here, arms outstretched into the sky, tears drying on their face. He has been here. _

_Houses burnt beyond repair. The smell of death is in the air. A woman weeping in despair says, he has been here._

_And I see no bravery, no bravery in your eyes anymore. Only sadness. -- James Blunt  
_

Chapter One

_Now._

They walk in silence, dusty boots on dusty streets. The sky is ash and the air smells of smoke. Dean thinks the constant stink of death is finally fading, or maybe he's just gotten used to it. The rusting shells of cars rot in driveways, gutted houses hunch on blackened foundations.

Milwaukee's a dead city now, bled dry of citizens and hope. They pass a park littered with bodies. Burnt trees raise gnarled hands in prayer, and Dean bares his teeth: _good luck_. Prayer hasn't done anything for him or Sam, and he's tried—they've all tried. But nobody's listening. Nobody he wants to hear him, anyway.

It takes a few days to cross the city. They haven't come across any stragglers for almost a week now, but they haven't come across any solders from The One Army, either, and that? Is a genuine bona-fide miracle.

Dean turns to the man beside him. They don't need to speak; in fact, they try not to. The sound of voices has a tendency to bring out the curious, and more often than not, the curious are demons or TOA soldiers—and both groups are bad news. Izzy staggers after them. She's crying again, but it's mostly a lot sniffling with a few mumbles and she's not too loud. He lets her keep it up, let out some of the grief.

God knows he'd like to.

ooooooo

_Then._

The rumors aren't much at first—a few whispers around the Roadhouse, a little bit of gossip. Then people start dying from a mysterious disease down in Mexico. Highly contagious, causes extreme violence. The whispers grow louder when two towns disappear overnight near the California border. The cops find a lot of blood, a lot of weapons, but not much else.

And then it hits Los Angeles. Mass panic. Car accidents. Shootings. Fires. And so much fucking death. And when everyone is freaked out of their minds, that's when the first soldiers appear.

Todd Simons of Oakland, California walks the halls of Berkeley electrocuting students with his hands.

Carol Hawthorn and her twin sister Karen set the Mall of America on fire. They don't need matches.

Jake Meyer stabs his whole family, using telekinesis and a butcher knife. Then he proceeds to kill everyone in a two block radius before the police arrive. He kills three police officers by turning their guns on them before a sniper takes him out.

It goes on and on. No one knows who to trust. The government thinks it's terrorism, and in a way, it is. Not against a country: against humanity. The military tries to crack down on the kids perpetrating the attacks. They call them clairvoyants or telekinetics on CNN, and the politicos debate about a sixth sense and ESP. Eventually slang takes over, with words like _Espies_ and _Sixers. _

They spend their time exorcising demons when Sam's not having nightmares. He's scared to death and Dean doesn't know what to do. A part of him just wants to pick Sam up and run (go, Dean, go, just as fast as you can) with him.

But Sam's too big and there's nowhere to go.

ooooooo

_Now._

Bottom of Form 1

He's been tracking Sam for months now. He can always sense when he's close, he can feel his presence like a vibration in his teeth.

Following the trail of mutilated bodies works too.

ooooooo

_Then._

Sam's nightmares are getting worse. He won't talk about them, but from the way he doesn't eat and talks in flat monosyllables, Dean's pretty sure he's getting visits from The Demon.

Sam thinks about death all the time. His death. Dean's death. He sees the faces of the ones he didn't save whenever he closes his eyes. He thinks about the feel of his gun (_comfortable, cool, calm_) in his hand and wonders how many people he could kill. And then he vomits on the side of the road, head down, fists clenched, eyes streaming. He grits his teeth while Dean says, "Sam? What's wrong?"

What's wrong is, he's trembling on the edge. The edge of sanity, the edge of death. And wouldn't it just be easier to fall? But he just leans his head against Dean's shoulder because Dean's the only good thing left. Dean's the anchor that keeps him steady. And Sam tells himself that as long as Dean's okay, he will be too.

ooooo

_Now._

Sometimes Sam leaves messages for Dean. Scarlet words on soot-covered walls. One message reads, _I'm waiting_. A note is nailed to the body of a woman hanging from a tree. It says _Hey bro, you're a little late._

Dean cries after that one. Not for long. He lets himself have five minutes to fall apart. Then he has to bind himself back up; tamp the memories down good and hard. He wipes his face on a dirty sleeve. That's when he sees the two pale faces watching.

ooooo

_Then._

The Sixers call themselves The One Army. As far as Dean can tell, their mission statement is pretty simple: kill everyone. And they sure as hell try.

He and Sam are trying to meet up with Andy and Sarah at the Roadhouse when it all goes to hell. The Roadhouse is burnt to the ground, the smell of smoke still in the air. A skull smiles up from the dirt. Before they can even register the horror, the Sixer soldiers are there, one on each side of Dean. Andy's frozen in place, all rolling eyes and shaking hands.

Sarah runs to Sam, her mouth gaping in a silent scream, and one of the soldiers smiles and says _kill yourself_ in a voice thick with blood and shadows and power. Andy turns and shouts _don't_,his own voice reverberating, but it's too late because she pulls the gun out of Sam's waistband, puts it in her mouth, and pulls the trigger. Her blood sprays across Sam's face, in his eyes, in his mouth.

The Sixer holding Dean smiles and puts a hand on Dean's forehead. "He's next."

The next thing Dean knows, he's on the ground. Everything hurts. His eyes, his teeth, his bones. She electrocuted him. Fucking bitch. But he can move, and he's already trying to sit up so it's not that bad. And he wonders about that. Why is he still alive? Why didn't she kill him?

Because of Sam.

It's a trap.

He should have seen it. He should have seen it, but he didn't. And now Sam is standing fifteen feet away radiating rage -- and power. Sam's shaking and blinking and the look on his face makes Dean want to cover his eyes and scream. Sam's strong and he's not letting go of the power yet, he's holding on, but Dean can see it's breaking him. He can feel it crackle in the air, and it makes him think of summer storms on a humid night.

The male Sixer pulls a gun and puts it to Dean's head. The barrel feels cold against his skinHe thinks,_ if at first you don't succeed, try, try again._

The whites of Sam's eyes show and his nostrils flare. He screams, spit and Sarah's blood flying. "If you touch him I'll kill you! _I'll kill you!_"

"It's okay," Dean grits out, and the sweat rolls off him. "Sam, it's o--"

And then Sam's back arches and energy slams out of him. The Sixer is lifted off his feet and slammed into the wreckage of the bar. A broken board punctures his chest and he twitches, once, twice, and then lies still.

Dean's mouth drops and terror claws at his gut. "Sam!"

Andy's hands are buried in his hair and he screams again, "Sam, stop!" Because they don't know what will happen if Sam (_a special child, so fucking special_) kills. But they suspect. Dean suspects. And now it's too late.

Something is wrong with Sam's head. A light has just gone on, a hidden room unlocked – and whatever is in that room should stay there. But now it's free, and it wants to explore. This is Sam's on switch for The Demon. It's his initiation into The One Army. It draws a line between the Sam that was and the Sam that will be.

Sam falls to his knees, trying to close the door again, but he can't get a firm hold, he can't reach, he _can't_. "He was going to kill you," he mutters, swaying.

The female Sixer holding Dean shoves him away. "Get out of here," she growls. She flexes a hand and sparks of electricity ripple over the skin of her knuckles.

Dean takes a step toward Sam and then he's running. _oh dear God let him be Sam let him still be Sam please let him let him be _him

Andy glares at the Sixer with narrowed eyes. "Get out of here."

The Sixer smiles but there's no warmth. "You know better than that, Andy Gallagher," she says. "I can't electrocute you. You can't mindfuck me." She licks her lips, rubs a hand down her thigh. "You can, however, fuck me the old fashioned way."

Dean's kneeling in front of Sam, a hand on each shoulder. "Sam, Sammy, can you hear me?"

Sam's face is still speckled with Sarah's blood, but the sickly pallor of his skin is unmistakable. The door swings wider. There's something there. Something coming. No. _No_. "Dean. You better kill me." _Hurry hurry please Dean, hurry._

Dean blanches, shakes his head. "Sam. No."

Andy pulls a gun from his coat pocket. He matches the Sixer's smile. "My voice might not work, but a bullet will."

The Sixer's smile widens and Andy sees she's filed her teeth into points. She shrugs. "Go ahead. Kill me. But you're surrounded. Five more will come in my place. And sooner or later, you'll be one of us."

Andy clicks the safety off. "No. Never."

The Sixer nods toward Sam. "I bet that's what he thought too. The One Army needs him. My Commander needs him." She clicks her teeth. "So my Commander will have him."

Andy pulls the trigger.

The Sixer dodges and rolls behind the Impala. She's impossibly fast. Gunshots ricochet around them and Andy crawls under the car. Dean pulls Sam to the ground and throws himself on top of him. Sam lies still beneath Dean, eyes squeezed shut. His breath is hot against Dean's stubbled cheek. "I need a gun, Dean. I can still do it. Otherwise...otherwise you have to. You promised." His voice is the sound of betrayal and pain and fear, and Dean doesn't know how to fix it.

Sam's hand scrabbles out for his gun, still clasped in Sarah's hand. Dean pulls his arm back. "No, Sam. I'm not letting you do this."

The gunfire stops but Andy stays under the car for several minutes. When he can't stand the waiting any longer, he crawls out, slow and cautious.

Dean's lying on his side, unconscious. The female Sixer and her fellow soldiers are gone.

So is Sam.

ooooo

_Now._

There's a boy and a girl, no older than ten. Both of them wear the mismatched tracks of stitches across their faces. Both are gaunt with wide eyes that have seen too much.

They look like to two scared, wounded children, lost in a dying world. That doesn't mean that's what they are.

Andy hoists his shotgun, aimed and ready . Izzy's got her knife and the holy water. Dean pulls himself up to his full height and adjusts the hat on his head. He nods at the kids, his face solemn. "_Christo_."

The girl immediately says _Christo_ back. She elbows the boy and he mutters, "_Christo_."

"Where is everone?" Dean asks.

The boy looks at the ground. Shuffles feet wearing tattered shoes. The girl stares back at Dean. She shrugs.

Dean reaches into his pack and pulls out a partially broken granola bar. It's old and stale, but food is food. He breaks what little is left into two pieces, and holds them out. The girl snatches both, then steps back, warily. She hands the bigger piece to her brother.

The pain is swift and unexpected. A fragment of memory – _don't cry Sammy, you can have part of my candy bar –_ that cuts deep. Dean swallows, his dry throat working past the loss. These kids are brother and sister. He's sure of it. Dean flicks a look at Andy, then nods.

Andy smiles at the kids. "Where is everyone?"

Their replies are instantaneous.

The girl says, "Dead."

The boys whispers, "Gone."

"Who killed them? The One Army? Disease?"

The boy moves closer to his sister and snakes a thin, scabbed arm around her waist. He presses his face against her shoulder. "The tall man," he says. His eyes flick to the body of the dead woman hanging from the tree.

The girl pushes a greasy string of hair from her forehead. Dean can see there is a brand burned into her scalp. The letter R. He doesn't ask what the letter stands for. She stuffs the granola into her mouth with dirty fingers. "Some died from the Disease," she says, chewing. "Some from TOA. A demon came through last year and killed my mom and dad. He killed most everybody. Two weeks ago a man came through." Her face is impassive, but Dean's counting the stitches on her face. There's gotta be at least fifteen. "He killed the rest." Her fingers bruch the stitches tracking her cheek. "He did this."

"What did he look like?" Dean asks. But he already knows.

ooooo

_Then._

Dean and Andy waste some time trying to find out if Ellen and Jo survived. The phone lines have been down for months, the internet is long gone, and Dean has no idea where his cell phone is. Even if he had it, it's not like it would work. A few news reports trickle in on radios and the remaining televisions to tell them the rest of the world is just as fucked. One afternoon a tinny voice tells them South Dakota is pretty much one huge wasteland. Dean shuts the radio off and is quiet for the rest of the day. He wonders if Bobby got out alive.

He eventually realizes his search party for Sam is going to equal exactly the two of them and that's it. In late October they sit beside a campfire and Dean wishes that Sam were with him instead of Andy. If it would actually bring Sam back, _his_ Sam, he's pretty sure he would shoot Andy in the head right now. He'd certainly sell his soul, make a deal with a demon, the devil, whatever it took. He'd trade his life, Andy's life, it doesn't matter. He just wants Sam.

But all he has is Andy. It's better than being alone. Right?

Andy runs a hand through his long hair. Shadows dance across his face. "What do we do now?" he wants to know.

"We find Sam," Dean says. His eyes burn, and he tells himself it's because of the smoke.

ooooo

_Now._

Izzy wants to give the kids an extra blanket and some apples she's been saving, but they refuse. They run off down the street, small legs pumping, clutching each other's hands. They don't look back.

Izzy sighs heavily, drops the apples back into her pack. Her mouth pulls into a tight line of misery.

Andy parts her shoulder. "It was a nice gesture," he says. "You tried."

"Let's keep moving," Dean says. The body of the dead woman sways in the breeze. Sam's note is crumpled on the ground where Dean left it. His feet are killing him, and he's so hungry his stomach lining is starting to eat itself. "I'll take one of those apples, Iz."

She sighs again, this time out of annoyance. She digs back into her pack and tosses an apple toward Dean. He catches it in one hand without looking.

They fall into the familiar pattern: Dean and Andy up front, Izzy right behind. They don't speak. Dean tries hard to keep it together, but every day without Sam feels a little more like hell. This isn't Sam running off to Stanford. This isn't Sam off on his own looking for destiny or some such shit. Dean's mouth tastes sour. _Fuck destiny. _

Dean's thankful for the company; he'd have gone crazy months ago without Andy, and Izzy's fine as long as she's not too freaked out. But as much as Andy tries, he's not Sam. Sam's absence feels like a missing limb. He's always reaching with a hand that's no longer there. He's always turning to say something to Sam, but there's only empty space where he should be. There's just Andy, and he's not good enough. No one's good enough to replace Sam.

No one.

ooooo

_Then._

It takes another two weeks for the gas to run out. Every gas station they try is empty. Most of them don't even have food or supplies left, though some still have employees decomposing behind the counter.

Dean feels like he should be crushed to leave his girl on the shoulder of some highway in Ohio. Andy's weeping like a baby over it, but Dean doesn't have the energy to care. All of his energy is already invested in finding Sam. It's easier to travel without the Impala, anyway. Most of the roads are too jammed up to make driving feasible now.

And hiding is easier on foot.

A field across from the highway is filled with wooden crosses. There are at least a hundred graves, maybe more. Dean looks at the soft mounds of dirt and wonders if a nearby town just gave up. Everyone took a shovel and dug their own shallow grave. Pulled a blanket of dirt over their heads and went to sleep.

A few miles past the makeshift cemetery they come upon a woman in stained pajamas standing in the road. Her face is covered in dirt and something else, maybe blood. Her hair hangs in thick snarls around her head. Dean can see a few leaves tangled in it.

"_Christo_," Dean calls.

It's the way you greet folks nowadays. No more hello. No more introductions. Just _Christo_ and as much Latin as you can cram in your skull. When demons can wear anyone's face, you can't be too careful.

The girl doesn't even look at him, but she doesn't flinch. She's standing still, knees bent slightly, arms loose at her sides. That's when Dean notices the bloody screwdriver clenched in one fist.

"_Christo_," Dean repeats, a little softer. He pulls his gun out of his waistband and waits.

He can hear the girl talking softly to herself, and she repeats the word _Christo_ a few times so at least she's not a demon. Then she shudders, takes a deep breath, and turns to Dean. "They're coming. We've got to go."

Dean regards her with obvious suspicion. "We don't have to go anywhere."

"There are two demons coming. One looks like a little boy. The other is in the shape of a dog. They're coming together." She cocks her head and mutters "together, together, forever."

Andy and Dean exchange looks. Andy twirls a finger by his ear in the universal sign for _nutjob_. Dean shrugs. He doesn't care if she's crazy or not, as long as she's not a demon. Or a Sixer. Dean leans toward Andy. "Ask her."

"Are you part of TOA?"

The girl takes a step backward. "I'm not anything. I'm nothing. And that's what you'll be if you don't move your asses." She finally looks at Dean and her eyes are the palest blue he's ever seen.

A dog barks in the distance.

_Shit._

Dean and Andy catch up with the girl easy enough and they move off the road. The three of them wait behind a dense cover of dying lilacs.

Dean can hear the child's voice now, high and sweet, while he talks to the dog. "Do you smell anyone yet?" he asks.

The dog growls low in his throat.

Before Dean has time to give orders, the girl is already whirling out of the bushes, the screwdriver ready. "_Christo_," she shrieks and the boy hisses at her. The dog yips once, turns in a quick circle, then resumes growling.

"Die, you fucker," she spits, and nails the screwdriver directly into the center of the demon's forehead.

Dean recovers quickly enough to take out the dog with one shot. The girl pulls the weapon out of the demon's head and wipes it clean on the hem of her pajama top.

"Jesus Christ," Dean says through clenched teeth, "you could have gotten yourself killed. And you didn't have to kill him. We could have done an exorcism on the kid."

She shakes her head. "Wouldn't have worked."

Dean's anger ramps up a few degrees. "Look, bitch, I know at least ten different exorcisms. We could have–"

Andy interrupts, pointing to the small figure on the blacktop. "Dean. His neck."

And Dean sees. The boy's neck is distended. A piece of bone protrudes from under his left ear. "He had a broken neck," Dean says softly. His eyes flick up the girl. "How did you know?"

"The voices tell me," she says simply.

"Well maybe they can tell _me_ next time," he says, slipping his gun back into his belt.

"You're making fun of me," she says, eyes on Dean's face. It's not a question, it's a statement.

"I'm not." Dean says. "I'm not in a position to judge. Maybe you have some invisible choir of angels following you around giving you GPS on demons. Maybe you don't. Whatever you have, you helped us out when you didn't have to. And that's a rare thing."

Andy nods in agreement. "Thanks." He holds out his hand. "I'm Andy."

She stares at it moment, as if he's just offered her a severed foot. But then she grasps his hand and smiles, and the look transforms her face. "I'm Isobelle. But you can call me Izzy."

Dean dips his head, touches the brim of his hat. "I'm Dean."

"Nice to meet you."

She rolls her eyes then and drops Andy's hand. "And I don't have a choir of angels telling me about demons. It's mostly just my sister." She pauses. "She's dead."

ooooo

_Now._

They camp in an empty Amtrak station. They're not the first ones: the detritus of past occupants litters the station floor and walls. They wind their way through the garbage to a bench that's not broken. Izzy looks over her shoulder, then breathes "Oh my God." Dean and Andy both look up, tense.

Dean feels for his gun. "What?"

"A bathroom!" She grins likes it's Christmas and twirls herself over to the door. She pokes a head inside, then jerks herself back out. "Sweet Jesus it reeks," she yells, her face screwed up in disgust, but she forges ahead anyway and a triumphant cry filters through the door. "Guys, there's water!"

Dean smiles, and it feels wrong, like he's forgotten how. He pushes the door open and the three of them stand in front of dirty sinks filling almost empty bottles, laughing.

ooooo

_Then._

Izzy tells them she's off her medication. She used to take medication in the hospital and she couldn't hear her sister or any of the other voices. But since the hospital was abandoned, her sister is with her all the time.

Dean's pretty sure Isobelle never had a sister. She might be schizophrenic, or maybe she's got a posse of personal ghosts she hangs with – he has no idea. He asks what Izzy's sister's name is and she looks at him like he just asked for her panties. After that he just calls her Claudia, because that seems like a cool name for an invisible chick.

Imaginary or not, Claudia provides decent intel every once in a while. She knows there's a bunch of demons in Indianapolis so they give the city a wide berth.

One morning Izzy shakes Dean awake. It's still dark out but Dean's instantly alert, one hand on his gun, the other on his knife. "What?"

"He was here a few weeks back," she informs him.

"How do you know?" Dean asks. He doesn't need to ask who she's talking about.

"Claudia and some of the others saw him."

Dean stares at her, hard. "What do you mean, _saw_ him?"

"Well, not him, but his footprints. Like, psychic footprints. She sees them in the air. Sometimes I do too."

Dean sighs. He feels tired now. Not sleepy, exhausted. "How do you know what his footprints look like, Iz? You've never seen him."

"They look a lot like yours."

Dean's eyebrows skyrocket. "I have psychic footprints?"

She gives him a look. "Of course. Everyone does."

Not for the first time he wonders if she's one of the special ones. But she's too young, she's only nineteen, and she's heard the voices all her life. "Listen to me," he tells her, his face solemn, "if Claudia ever tells you to kill me or Andy while we're sleeping, you don't listen, okay?"

"Of course I'll listen," Izzy says, "I can't turn her on and off. Just because I listen to what she says doesn't mean I have to do it, right?"

"Good girl." Dean pats her knee.

He smacks Andy's foot and he jerks awake. "Huh? What?"

"Time to go," Dean says. "We're gaining on him."

ooooo

_Now._

It's plenty warm in the station. Andy pours a large salt circle around them and they settle down for the night. Dean closes his eyes but can't sleep. He listens to Izzy whisper to Claudia instead.

"Am I crazy?" she asks softly. "Are you even real? Do I have a sixth sense?" She pauses, listening to a voice only she can hear. "I know. I'm just trying to figure out what I am."

Dean rolls over to look at her. "You're the same thing as me and Andy," he says hoarsely.

Izzy blinks at him in the semi darkness, her face a question.

"Alive."

ooooo

_Then._

They follow 294 from Indiana to Chicago. Every now and then they see someone walking in the opposite direction. More often they see the dead lying where they fell. They search pockets and bags like vultures, looking for food or weapons, but they rarely find either.

Six Flags Great America is a skeleton now, metal bones falling across the highway. Andy stares at the ruined roller coaster for a long time. "My mom brought me here when I was little." His voice is reverent with memories.

Izzy swings on a piece of scaffold like it's monkey bars. "I always wanted to go to Disneyland."

"It's a little late now," Dean comments. He keeps walking. He doesn't care about parks or rides or the past. Just Sam.

Izzy kicks her legs, swinging back and forth. "This is still pretty fun," she says. "Can we stay a while?"

"You can stay if you want," Dean says over his shoulder. "But Andy and I aren't."

"How come we never get to have any fun?" she demands, pouting.

Andy adjusts the strap of his bag. "There isn't any left to have."

ooooo

_Now._

They're eating a breakfast of apples and godawful jerky that Andy found in a burnt-out Walgreens a few days ago. None of them can identify the exact flavor. It's like trying to eat shoe leather, only Dean's pretty sure shoe leather would taste infinitely better. They each take a pee break behind the ticket counter and get ready to move on.

The outside doors swing open and a lone figure steps through. He's tall and thin, and for one second Dean's heart stops and he thinks it's Sam. But it's not. The figure moves closer, and Dean can see the man is older, his face lined, long graying hair tied back with a bandana. Andy lifts his shotgun and flashes Izzy an annoyed look, tinged with anger.

"What?" she shrugs. "Claudia didn't see him. I can't help it. Besides, he's not a demon."

"And yet I'm not comforted," Andy mutters from the corner of his mouth.

Dean's hand is on his gun. "_Christo_."

The man nods and responds, "_Christo. Este salvi._"

Dean's finger slides off the trigger, but he keeps his hand on the gun, just in case. "You be safe too," he says. "Nice Latin."

The man smiles thinly. "I knew Latin before the world went to hell."

"Good for you."

"You're not a demon, and you look a little long in the tooth for a TOA soldier," Dean comments. Andy and Izzy move in, flanking him on either side.

"I'm a letifer," the man says. He leans against a long walking stick.

Letifer. Latin for death-dealer. What the post-apocalypse hunters like to call themselves. _Great. _

"If you're a hunter, you don't have any business with us," Dean says and makes a little _move along_ gesture.

The man's smile fades. "I'm on a job. I heard there was a Sixer in these parts. Part of the TOA."

Dean stares the man down. "Really." Andy shifts almost imperceptibly, but stays quiet.

The hunter taps his stick against the floor. "And the funny thing is, this particular Sixer used to be a hunter." His expression turns cold. "How's that for fucked up?"

Dean's chest tightens. He lifts his chin in defiance. "I've heard worse."

The hunter's eyes narrow. "I haven't. You three wouldn't know where he is, would you?"

Dean purses his lips. If he knew where Sam was, he wouldn't be standing here talking to this asshole. "Do we look like Sixers to you?"

"Can't be too careful," the man says and grasps the walking stick with both hands.

Dean shakes his head in disgust. "Dude. I'm not gonna play pick up sticks with you. If you want to hunt, fine. Move along. Find something worth hunting. _I'm_ hunting the Sixer."

The hunter regards Dean thoughtfully. "We can hunt him together."

"No. We can't."

The hunter moves closer, swinging the stick in some kind of stick-fu way that makes Dean want to shoot him and be done with it. Instead he turns to Andy. "Get rid of him."

Andy clears his throat. "Drop the stick," he says, his voice loud.

The hunter stops moving and he blinks. He looks torn. Fury mixed with a desire to please. The stick drops to the floor. "You're sick of this hunt," Andy continues. "You want to go home."

The hunter eyes Andy and it's obvious he's trying to kill him with sheer willpower. It doesn't work. So the hunter turns and walks on stiff legs out the door.

Dean breathes a sigh of relief. He punches Andy's arm, but not hard. "Nice. Remember what I said, though."

Andy starts walking for the far exit and they follow. "Yeah, yeah. If I ever use the voice on you, you'll cut my head off and stuff it down my neck."

Dean nods and slaps Andy's back. "You know it."

ooooo

_Then._

The moon is a broken fingernail.

It doesn't give off much light, but the sky is hazy from too many fires, and they shuffle along well enough. They're crossing through Kenosha when they find a fast food restaurant that's still standing. It looks like all the food is long gone, but then, in a back cupboard, there's a box of stale saltine packets. Awe. Some. They fill their packs, duffels and pockets with as many crackers as they can.

"My grandma used to call these soda crackers," Izzy tells them, apparently at Claudia's request.

"That's funny, because--" Andy trails off and elbows Dean.

There's something in the parking lot. Behind the husk of a school bus. "We've got company," Dean grits.

Izzy's head comes up, eyes wide with anxiety. "There's a demon outside. And he's--" her face tightens with fear, "--he's in his pure form."

Andy's brow wrinkles. "Pure form?"

Dean lays his weapons out on an empty table top. "He's not dressed like one of us," he says, and starts loading ammo.

Dean picks his rifle up just as the plate glass window shatters. The three of them are back far enough to avoid most of the glass, but he's still pissed that they weren't ready.

Two figures stand in front of the bus watching them. One looks human, one doesn't. The possible human is a girl about Sam's age. Shoulder length dark hair. She's holding a machine gun and smiling. "Dean Winchester," she calls. "Nice to finally meet you."

The hairs stand up on the backs of Dean's arms. Now what?

Next to her is a tall humanoid shape made of fire – at least, it looks like it's made of fire. The fire is contained and glows a brilliant orange. It raises arm-like appendages, and the glass partition explodes behind them.

Andy's on one knee. He takes a shot and recites an exorcism while he reloads. He ducks behind a downed table. Izzy peers carefully over the formica top and takes a shot as well.

Dean pulls a glass bottle of holy water out of his duffle and lobs it at the demon. The glass breaks at the demon's feet and Dean can see the holy water hit. The flames stutter and there's a loud wailing noise, the sound of angry wind. Dean smiles darkly and tosses another bottle. The demon backs up a step.

"Stop it," the girl commands. "I'm here for Andy Gallagher."

"Andy's busy right now," Dean says. "Why don't you come back...oh, I don't know, how about never?"

"Don't you want to know how I know who you are?" she asks.

"Not really interested," Dean responds. "But I'm guessing you're a soldier. A little far from the front, aren't you?"

"You never know where you can find new recruits," she says with a smile.

She's cute, really. If she weren't an evil homicidal demon-loving killer, he might smile back. And there's something about her that seems...familiar.

"Don't make me kill you," she says warns, sounding a little too cheerful.

Andy's still belting out the Latin and the demon doesn't seem very happy about it. For the moment, the girl's attention is on Dean, not her fellow...whatever, and he's thankful.

He pops up from behind the table, gun at the ready, and squeezes off a single shot. One eye is closed, the tip of his tongue peeks out of his mouth in concentration. The girl slams against the bus and drops to the ground.

The demon is tossing tables around and Izzy takes some tossing as well. It throws Andy through the glass window on the other side of the restaurant. Dean takes up the exorcism and in another minute, the demon vanishes with a flash of ozone and a loud crack. The smell of sulfur hangs heavy in the air.

Breathing hard, Dean checks on Izzy. She's got a gash along one arm, but it's nothing a few stitches can't fix. Andy's alive, and while he's not exactly well, he'll be okay too. There's a piece of glass stuck in the back of his head and in his shoulder. He's going to need more than a few stitches.

Dean walks out to the fallen Sixer, his boots crunching glass beneath his feet. She blinks up at him in confusion. There's a bullet hole in the center of her forehead, neat and black and clean. There's very little blood, but he can see it pooling beneath her head. "Wha...happen?" she slurs.

"You tried to kill me and my friends," Dean replies.

Her head rolls in a vain attempt at denial. "No. Wouldn't do that. 'm a good person. Try to help. Try to help Sam."

Dean's stomach falls, and he crouches beside her. "_What_?"

"Sam Win...chester. Hadda vision."

Dean licks his lips, his mouth dry. "What's your name?"

She blinks. "Ever…thing's blurry. 'm cold."

Dean tries again. "What's your name?"

"Ava. Ava Wil...son."

_Looks like we found her, Sammy. _

Dean clasps his hands to keep them from trembling. "Ava, what's the last thing you remember?"

"Head hurts."

"I know. But this is important, Ava. Try to remember."

"Went to see Sam. Hadda vision. Tried to save him." Then her face contorts and she chokes out a sob. Her eyes bulge and Dean can see the uneven pupils. "No! _No_! I did bad things. oh my god, ohmygodohmygod, what did I do?" Tears leak from her eyes as they roll back and forth in her head, looking for someone to blame, someone to help. "What did I do? What did I do?" Her voice is a weak rasp and her body shakes while she begs for an answer she doesn't really want. Dean's trying to figure out if he should try to help her when she goes into a seizure.

It takes 43 seconds for her to die.

He remains beside her body for a while longer, thinking.

Planning.

ooooo

_Now._

They smell the smoke long before they see it. A black column on the horizon. "You still see his footprints?" Dean asks Izzy.

She nods.

An old woman, or maybe just a woman who looks old, is perched on the curb by a bus-stop sign. She's cradling something in her arms. When they get close, Dean can see it's the body of a child. The body is so decomposed he can't tell if it's a boy or a girl.

"_Christo_," Izzy says softly.

The woman looks up. Her eyes are blank and her smile is too big for her face. "Can you help me? Something's wrong with my boy."

Izzy turns away, a hand pressed to her eyes. Dean can't bring himself to meet the woman's pleading gaze. It's not the Sixers or the demons that are the worst, it's the people they've broken and left behind.

"I'm sorry," Andy mutters as he shuffles past.

Blocks away, they can still hear the woman calling, _Can you help me?_

ooooo

_Then._

Izzy is sleeping.

Andy's hunched beside the fire. He's afraid to sleep now – the Demon started visiting his dreams two nights ago. Dean feels a sense of deja vu. He remembers the way Sam sunk into a black mire of fear and depression. He doesn't want to lose Andy too.

He brings a hand to his temple and rubs the scar where Sam hit him all those months ago. Dean's fingers stray to the scar often. The last time Sam touched him. The last time Sam touched him was with his fist. After he saved Lenore, Sam said, _I owe you one._

Not anymore.

ooooo

_Now._

Izzy is pale, her hands clenched. She's afraid, and Dean doesn't blame her.

Sam's close. He's waiting. Dean's whole head vibrates with the knowledge, and he doesn't know what to expect. "Anything?" he asks Izzy for the third time in five minutes.

"I don't think so," she says. It's the same answer she gave the last time he asked. "She's not talking right now."

Dean wants to laugh. Even the imaginary people are scared.

Dean's feet pull him past empty stores and broken houses until he's standing at the end of a residential street. An old brownstone stands at the end of a cul de sac, and it's more or less untouched.

Sam is in there.

This is it. _Now or never._

Dean stops, puts a hand on Andy's shoulder. "You need to stay outside and wait for me."

Andy gapes. "What? Are you crazy? There's no way I'm--"

Dean puts a hand up. "I don't want him killing you." He looks from Andy to Isobelle. "I'm not taking any chances. It's better that he just kill me instead of all three of us."

Izzy hugs herself. The stitches on her arm march in a neat row. "How about you kill him first? Isn't that the plan?"

Dean nods slowly. "Yeah," he lies. "That's the plan."

"I came all this way with you," Andy protests. "He was my friend too."

"And you're _my_ friend," Dean says and there's some truth to it. "So wait for me. I'll call you if I need you."

He moves up the front steps slowly. He can feel their eyes on him, but he doesn't look back. The front door creaks on rusty hinges and he steps inside an old-fashioned front porch.

"Sam?"

ooooo

Sam's waiting in the kitchen. He's leaning against a counter, arms crossed over his chest, relaxed. His smile looks genuine, and the sight of his dimples makes Dean's chest ache.

"Hey Dean," he says and he looks and sounds like Sam (Sammy), but he's not. "I've been waiting for you."

Dean doesn't bother smiling back because he can't. He's not sure he can do this.

_You can. You have to._

"I'd like it if you put your weapons on the counter," Sam says, as if he's asking Dean to stay for dinner. "I don't think I need you to keep that promise anymore."

Dean nods and puts the .45 on the chipped counter. Next comes the bowie knife tucked in his boot.

Sam eyes the weapons for a moment, and then they fly into a corner of the room, clattering against the hardwood floor. He looks back up at Dean. His hair is long and unkempt, but clean. There's no denying he looks good. Healthy. _Happy_. His eyes are no longer dull with fear. The worry lines on his forehead are gone. "I missed you," Sam says. "I didn't think I would...but I did."

The dirty dishes piled in the sink rise a few inches, rattling softly. A chair lifts off the floor next to Dean. He takes a step back.

"I want you to come with me," Sam says. "You can be one of us."

Dean shakes his head. "I'm not like you, Sam. Not anymore." He works to keep his voice neutral.

Sam grins and Dean glimpses the wolf (_eager, hungry, wanting_) below the surface. "You could be," he says. "I can help you."

"And I can help you." Dean's hand seems to move on its own. He pulls the little .22 from his belt and aims in one smooth motion. The gun is steady in his hand. "I keep my promises," he says.

Dean pulls the trigger. It takes a second. It takes forever.

There's a flash from the barrel.

Sam doesn't even have time to be surprised.

The dishes fall back into the sink with a horrendous crash. The chair drops back to the floor, tips over.

The bullet enters Sam's skull through his right eye.

One minute he's standing by the counter, talking to Dean. The next minute he's on the floor, a bullet in his head.

ooooo

Andy's tucked behind a tree trying to watch everywhere at once. There's no movement in any of the remaining houses. No blinds move. No birds sing. No dogs bark. There's just the heavy curtain of silence hanging over them all.

And then – the soft pop of a gunshot.

Izzy turns to look at him, her face pale. She bites her lip, eyes bright. "Was that--?"

He nods, tight-lipped, heart pounding.

His feet run toward the house and then there's Dean (_alive!_) yelling at him to get inside, _now, come on, hurry!_

Andy bursts through the door, Isobelle on his heels. Andy stops in the kitchen doorway and Izzy slams into him, almost knocks him down.

Sam's on the floor. His face is covered in blood and _oh fuck_ his right eye, his right eye is gone. Gone. There's blood, and _what is _that? Andy turns away and thumps his head against the doorframe, trying to control his clenching stomach.

Sam's left eye is open and tracks Dean's every move.

Izzy's crying. "Oh my God, Dean. Oh my God. What happened?" She cringes, hanging back near Andy. "Did you...did you," she swallows, and lumbers on, "do you want me to finish it?"

Dean glares. "No, I don't need you to finish it," he growls. "I wasn't trying to kill him. If I wanted him dead, he'd be dead. I just need...to try this first. Now get over here and help me."

Izzy kneels beside Sam's still body and tries not to look at his face. "What...what are you doing?"

"Wishing you'd shut up," Dean grits. He snaps his fingers in Andy's direction. "Hey. Andy. Look in the drawers for towels or pot holders or anything."

Andy wipes his face with the back of his hand and stumbles toward the bank of drawers.

Dean's hand is on Sam's neck, feeling for a pulse. It's there, and fairly strong. He shows Izzy where to place her fingers. "You feel that? If that changes, if it feels slower or faster, or whatever, you let me know."

"Okay." She turns to the air beside Dean's shoulder and hisses, "Not now. I'm busy."

Andy comes over with a towel that says _kiss the cook_, and Dean folds it into quarters and presses it to Sam's eye. Or, more accurately, where his eye used to be.

Sam lifts a hand to snag Dean's sleeve. He misses, his peripheral vision gone, but tries again. He closes long fingers around the soft flannel. "Dean."

Dean almost puts his hand on Sam's, but he can't. Not yet. Not until he's sure.

Sam's head is killing him. He can't figure out what happened. One minute he's at the Roadhouse and -- no, wait, the Roadhouse is gone. He was with Dean and then--

Dean's face is all tight and angry looking and he won't meet Sam's gaze. There's a blond girl and he wants it to be Jess, but it's not. And Andy's here. Andy is okay. He's not evil. Not like--

Sam studies Dean's face. He's got a scar on his right temple, just above his ear. Like someone hit him and--

He can feel the panic edging in. Crowding him. It's eating up the air all around him and his chest feels too tight. Sam tries to touch his face but a hand gently guides his back down. There's a weight on him, on his soul. The pressure of a thousand things he doesn't want to remember _whispering, itching, singing_ for his attention.

He remembers there was a door. In his mind. And something came out, something loud and terrible and _him_. The door is gone now. The room is empty. Sam is empty. And then the memories (_pierce skin_) of what he's been doing (_lick blood_) for the past eight months (_break bone_) rush in, filling the hollow places.

ooooo

The bleeding seems to be under control and Sam's still conscious. He hasn't launched the table at Dean's head or thrown him against a wall, so maybe he was right. Maybe this will (_is_) work(_ing_).

Sam keeps looking at him and his one eye feels like a laser burning right into his skull. But then Sam opens his mouth and a ragged scream rips out of him and it sounds like he's being torn apart, like he's dying. His good eye is focused inward and his arms are boneless and flopping on the floor like he's having a seizure. But he's not. Dean knows Sam well enough to recognize what this is.

It's a grief so deep and so wide Sam can't contain it.

Izzy shrinks back in alarm. "What's happening?"

Andy grimaces. "Shit, what's wrong with him?"

Sam wails on the kitchen floor of a narrow brick house, desperate to scream out the guilt (_cut tendons_) and horror (_tear muscle_) and shame. He's mindless of the fact his brother holds him now, rocks him back and forth, makes soft sounds of comfort. Sam screams until his voice is gone, until he's reduced to making a horrible keening noise that sends Andy and Izzy running from the room.

He keens, head pressed against Dean's chest until the darkness pulls at him, but it doesn't matter because the guilt and horror and shame are still _in him_, and they'll never leave.


	2. Chapter 2

_I hurt myself today  
To see if I still feel  
I focus on the pain  
The only thing that's real  
The needle tears a hole  
The old familiar sting  
Try to kill it all away  
But I remember everything _

If I could start again  
A million miles away  
I would keep myself  
I would find a way—Johnny Cash

Chapter 2

_Now._

Sam lies on the too-small bed, listening. His head hurts, but it's hurt worse. He moves his fingers over the eye patch and it's smooth beneath his skin.

They're talking about him. Again. They think he doesn't know, but he does – he might be (mostly) blind, but he's not deaf.

He rolls over to stare at the wall. White plaster looks back. This is what he wants to be. White plaster. A clean slate. A new start. But he is none of those things.

He is a murderer recovering from a gunshot wound.

In the next room, Dean says, "It's been two days and he hasn't done anything."

"He cried," Izzy points out.

Sam can hear the exasperation in Dean's voice. "He hasn't tried to _hurt_ any of us. He's shown remorse. He's acting like _Sam_."

Sam shuts his eye. _Remorse_. What a fucking waste of letters. It doesn't begin to describe how he feels. What he owes.

"How did you know it would work?" Andy asks.

"I didn't. But after what happened with Ava I thought there might be a chance. That's why I used the .22 caliber bullet, because there's less force. And that's why I aimed for the eye, so I wouldn't hit the midline."

Dean keeps talking but Sam stops listening.

He wishes he could pull himself into the blank wall and disappear. He reaches out one long arm and touches the wall with tentative fingers.

All he has to do is punch through the wall and go inside. Get away. Run. Hide.

He doesn't know how to get away from himself.

ooooo

_Then._

He no longer thinks in terms of destiny or right or wrong. He thinks in terms of destruction and pain and death. The hunters (_not special like he is_) have a word for it. _Letifer_. Death dealer. That's what he is. The Yellow Eyed Demon (_Commander, Master_) whispers into his ear at night and Sam listens. He obeys his orders, because, in another life, a different commander taught him how.

There are some humans (_weak_) who are blind to the coming glory. Sam is a soldier fighting to rid the earth of the stink of humanity, and one day (_soon_) the demons will return to their rightful place.

The small group cowers before him. Two men and a child. Sam smiles at them, his face shining with empathy and trust. "Do you know who I am?" he asks gently. He pulls a long blade out of a sheath on his belt. "I'll show you." He plunges the knife into the child's throat and _pulls_. Blood spurts, baptizing them all.

ooooo

_Now._

Sam's own scream wakes him. He scrambles off the mattress and wedges himself into the small space between the wall and the bed.

He's shivering and he rubs his face, desperate to get the blood off. It takes a minute for him to realize there isn't any. It was a nightmare (_memory_).

Sam licks his cracked lips, breathing hard. He blinks the sweat out of his eye, and that's when he sees the figure in the chair. His heart constricts and he jerks back, slamming his head against the wall in panic. "No!" It's the Yellow-Eyed Demon come to reclaim its property.

"Sam."

Sam relaxes a fraction, just a fraction, because the voice belongs to Dean. He remains against the wall, his face taut with tension and fear.

Dean gets up, moves to Sam's bed. He pats the rumpled blankets. "Dude, it's okay. Sit down."

Sam wants to laugh but the sound comes out wrong, high and strangled. "Okay? Nothing's okay!" His voice wobbles, but the accusation is still evident. "You should have killed me when you had the chance."

Dean puts a hand on Sam's arm. "I did kill you." He meets Sam's good eye. "I killed the part of you that was wrong. I killed the monster you turned into."

Sam shakes his head. "I'm still a monster." He brings his hands to his head, grabs fistfuls of hair and yanks. The pain helps, but just barely. "In here. I remember what I did." His voice is a harsh rasp, thick with rust and regret. "I can't get it out. I can't stand seeing the things I did."

Dean is silent for a long moment. When he finally speaks, he pulls Sam close. Sam resists, then lets himself be pulled away from the wall. "You have to try and think about something else," Dean tells him.

Sam is incredulous. "What?" His mind is filled with horror, there _is_ nothing else.

Dean puts an arm on Sam's shoulder and meet's Sam's gaze. "You need to tell me what The Demon is planning."

Sam's good eye on fixes on Dean blankly.

Dean takes a deep breath. "And is there a chance we can stop him?"

ooooo

Sam refuses to travel with them unless Dean ties his hands behind his back. Dean bitches about it, but finally agrees just so they can get moving. They've already been in Milwaukee too long.

On the outskirts of Green Bay, Izzy is the first to see the message spray-painted across a deserted overpass. She elbows Andy. "Look."

Tall shaky letters read: YOU WILL FIND HOPE IN TRUTH.

Dean squints at the letters. "What the hell?"

"Keep walking," Sam says.

Andy looks up at Sam. "Do you know what it means?"

"It means we're going to Truth or Consequences, New Mexico."

"What's there?" Dean wants to know.

Sam keeps his eyes on the concrete in front of him. He doesn't look at anything but the highway. He counts his steps so that numbers fill his head instead of the faces of those he's killed. He pauses at five hundred fifty-two and says, "Our last chance."

ooooo

Dean opens his eyes to find Andy squatting next to him. "You have to take my weapons," he says. His face is red; he's been crying.

Dean is instantly awake, his eyes on the shotgun in Andy's hands. He pushes himself up onto his elbows. "What's going on?"

Andy won't meet Dean's gaze. "He wants me to kill you," he whispers. "I won't. I keep telling the fucker no, but I'm tired, Dean. I'm so tired and I'm scared all the time." He slides his gun across the dead grass. "Take it."

Sam watches them, his back against a tree. His hands are no longer tied, but a thick rope anchors him to the tree trunk. The rope forces him to sit upright and he's glad. He never wants to sleep again. He can feel Andy's misery. His terror. It's almost visible. He pulls his knees up and wraps his arms around them. "Andy."

Andy turns to look at him. His eyes shine in the firelight.

Sam crooks a finger. "Come here."

Andy takes a few steps toward Sam. He gets close, but not too close. "What?"

"I can help you. But I need you to come closer."

Andy is clearly hesitant, but he seats himself within reaching distance of Sam. The exhaustion and dread hangs over Andy like a shadow. "I know how you feel," Sam says. "You're afraid. Afraid you'll be like me."

Andy shifts, uncomfortable. "Sam..."

Sam smiles but his face is etched with sorrow. "I don't want you to be like me either," Sam says hoarsely. He reaches out and puts his hand on Andy's forehead. He can almost hear the Demon's voice, it feels like ants crawling over his skin. And some part of Sam's mind reaches into Andy and shuts it off. It's like listening to static one minute, blessed silence the next. Just like that, _off_.

Andy pushes himself away from Sam, gaping in shock. "What...what did you do?"

Izzy shifts at the sound of Andy's raised voice, but she doesn't wake up.

Dean moves to stand in front of Sam. "What happened?"

Andy's face can't hold on to one single emotion. He switches between amazement, suspicion, and relief. He blinks at Dean and points to Sam, like a third-grade tattletale. "He did something to me!"

Dean's eyes bore into Sam. "What'd you do?"

Sam accepts their doubt, their skepticism. It's what he deserves. "I think I took...The Demon out of his head. I don't think he'll be able to come into Andy's dreams anymore."

Now it's Dean's turn to look shocked. "What? How?"

Sam shakes his head. "I'm not sure. I just knew that I could. It was like...I could see his misery and I wanted to take it away."

Dean barks out an angry laugh. "And put it where, exactly?"

Sam is silent.

"Did you take it? Somehow...absorb it like a fucking X-man? Because I hate to tell you Sam, you're already..." Dean sighs heavily and trails off.

"Fucked up?" Sam suggests.

Dean glares. "I didn't say that."

"But it's what you think." Sam looks from Dean to Andy, then at the sleeping form of Isobelle. "It's what you all think. And you're right." Sam leans his head against the rough bark and stares up at the empty night. "You know why I make you tie my hands?" He strains half-heartedly against the rope that binds him to the tree. "Why I want you to tie me up?"

"Because you're afraid you'll hurt us," Andy says.

Sam tilts his head. "No, Andy. I won't hurt you. That's over. There's only one person I want to hurt now. There's only one person who deserves punishment." A tear rolls down his cheek, silver in the moonlight.

"Sam." Dean's voice is a warning. "Don't say it." Sam smiles and his face holds so much pain Dean has to look away.

"Me," Sam says softly. "I think about death all the time. All the people I killed. And now I just want to kill me." His smile turns bright and bitter. "And I will. I'm just waiting. I'll help you as much as I can, but then I'm done. I'm _done_."

Andy starts pacing. "Stop talking that way, man. You...you just helped me." He manages a shaky laugh. "You have no idea how much you helped me." He leans down to look into Sam's face. "You saved me, Sam. You _saved_ me."

Sam nods. "Good. I'm glad. But saving you doesn't make up for what I've done," his voice shakes. "I can't live with it. You have no idea what I've done." His voice rises. "And I can't tell you. Because if I tell you, you'll kill me right now." Sam's mouth twists in revulsion. "I'm the things we hunt." He smacks his head against the tree.

Dean shakes his head. "No, Sam. Listen–"

"You listen!" Sam screams. "I know it wasn't fair to ask you to kill me. It wasn't then and it isn't now. I know better. I can do it myself." He takes a shuddering breath, straining for control. "But not yet."

"Shut up," Dean spits. "I didn't chase your ass for the past year and get you back just so you could kill yourself."

Sam clenches his teeth. "Is this the part where you tell me I'm a selfish bastard? Because we did that already. I got the memo, Dean." Another tear leaks from his eye and he hits his head again. "But you don't know what it's like. You have _no idea_."

ooooo

_Then._

The woman begs for mercy and her desperate sobs are music. He loops the rope around her neck and tosses the other end over the branch. Her face is wet with tears and snot and blood, and he laughs. This is what the humans are now, mewling and helpless in the face of death.

Sam pulls the rope effortlessly and her feet lift off the ground. She makes a strangled cry, her eyes wide with terror. He pulls her close and kisses her hard bites her tongue, her lips, and tastes the salty tang of her blood. He steps back and spits in her face. Her own blood spatters across her nose like freckles. "It's time to go," he says, and ties the rope off. Her eyes roll and her feet kick, but it's useless. There's no help for her now.

Sam is turning away, whistling, when he sees the two children. A boy and a girl, no older than ten. He lowers himself to their level, smiling with bloodstained teeth. "I have a present for you," he tells them. A knife appears in each hand.

ooooo

_Now._

Sam strains hard against the rope, tries to shake the children's ruined faces from his mind. He can still taste the woman's blood. He chokes and cries and his head thuds against broken bark.

_Fuck._

_Fuck it _all

His mother died for (_him_) this? And Jess? So he could become a monster and kill innocent people–innocent children? Why? What's the point? Why should he live when so many died (_because of him_)?

He can't.

(Thud.)

Stand it.

(Thud.)

Any more.

(Thud.)

And then Sam feels something behind his head but he can't stop, _can't stop_, and now Dean's swearing, shaking his hand.

Andy fumbles with the rope and he and Dean wrestle Sam to the ground but it's not much use because now he's just hitting his head on the ground and screaming _what's the fucking point_ and _get off_ _me_ and Dean is scared shitless.

Suddenly Izzy is in the middle of everything and grabs a fistful of Sam's hair. She holds his head still, looking down at him, listening to his frenzied breathing, and glares. "You're making it fucking hard to sleep, you know that?"

Dean and Andy stare at her, momentarily dumbstruck. Then Dean laughs shakily and puts his hands on either side of Sam's face. "The girl's got a point, Sam. You have to calm down."

Sam just turns his face away.

Dean lies down next to his brother and puts one arm around him. He holds Sam as close as he can, even though it's awkward because Sam's curled into himself like he's trying to disappear. He runs one hand through Sam's blood-matted hair and picks out bits of bark. Dean rests his forehead against Sam's shoulder, hoping he can transfer some of his own strength into Sam.

oooooo

They're skirting what's left of St. Louis when the tank rolls into view. It's coming toward them, rolling awkwardly over the dead cars still scattered across Highway 54. Dean looks for Izzy and she shrugs at him – Izzy speak for _no demon vibes_.

Dean's in the lead. He doesn't want to be, he's trying to keep in step with Sam, but Sam keeps lagging behind. His hands are tied again, and he keeps stumbling over chunks of broken concrete. Dean knows Sam isn't paying attention to his surroundings, because even half blind with his hands tied behind his back (literally), Sam can kick his ass in the speed and grace department. Only Sam isn't paying attention to speed or grace or the ground he's walking on. He's trapped in memories that won't let him go. Memories Dean is afraid to ask about.

Dean kicks a rock out of Sam's path and elbows him. "Dude. We've got company."

Sam lifts his head and blinks. Shaggy hair falls into his good eye, and he shakes his head in annoyance. He stares at the tank.

Andy comes up behind them. "What do you think? The real army or some kind of TOA trick?"

Dean frowns. "If it's our military, then they're probably in worse shape than we are."

Izzy waves at the tank, an _over here_ gesture. She grins at Dean. "Maybe we can hitch a ride."

"My feet would die of gratitude," Andy mutters, and Dean nods. His dogs are way past barking: they're in whimpering territory now. His boots are strung together with more hope than leather at this point, and the thought of a ride is worth the risk of conversation.

The tank rumbles toward them, creaks over the remains of a motorcycle, and comes to a stop about twenty feet away. There's a clank, and a hatch at the rear of tank drops down to form a ramp. A voice shouts in their direction. "Who the fuck are you?"

"Christo," Dean shouts, holding empty hands up, palms out. Andy drops down behind a nearby car, gun ready, watchful.

A soldier appears, machine gun in hand. He scowls at Dean's motley group. "Christo? What the fuck kind of name is that? Who are you?"

Dean rolls his eyes and lowers his hands. Definitely not a demon. "Easy, tiger. I'm just a regular guy. My name is Dean, these are my friends. None of us are demons or Sixers. We were wondering if maybe we could hitch a ride."

The scowl falls off the man's face and he leans against the tank, head back. "Oh, thank Christ. I thought you were more of those demon fucks or those fucked up X-kids."

Andy steps out from behind the car, gun pointed at the ground. "Where are you going?"

The closer Dean gets to him, the younger the soldier looks. He looks too thin and too pale, a huge bruise shading the left side of his face. The soldier shrugs. "Fuck if I know. The rest of my unit is gone." His voice wavers. "It's just me and the staff sergeant, but he's fucked up."

"What's your name?" Dean asks. "Or do I just call you G.I. Joe?"

The man runs a hand through short oily hair. "SPC Patrick Wackler. You can call me Trick if you want."

Dean stares at him. "Yeah…I'm going to call you Patrick, but thanks. You said your staff sergeant is fucked? I take it you don't mean in a good way?"

Patrick laughs bitterly. "I don't think there _is_ a good way nowadays."

Sam steps forward, squints at the specialist. "Can we help?"

The soldier's eyes bounce back and forth between Sam's eyepatch and his bound hands. He looks at Dean. "What is this?"

"I tried to steal some of their food," Sam says smoothly, "and I got caught. They're letting me travel with them, but only if I behave." He moves his hands weakly. "This helps me improve my attitude."

Dean snorts. "It's gonna take more than that to improve your attitude." He casts a quick wink at Sam. _Nice one._

Sam nods slightly, looks away. _Thanks._

Patrick shoots a glare at Sam, but says nothing. He turns back to Dean. "We don't have any food to steal."

"We've got some apples," Izzy pipes up. "Does that work as bus fare?"

Patrick smiles at her. "Maybe."

"The only problem is, we're heading in the other direction," Dean tells him. "Back the way you came."

Patrick lifts one shoulder. "All I do is go up and down this goddamn highway," he says. "My unit is gone, the base is gone, my family is gone..." his voice trails off. He manages a tight smile. "I've been looking for survivors, and I guess I finally found some."

Izzy walks over and hands him an apple. "Can you get us to Tulsa?" she asks.

Patrick considers, squinting up at the sky. "I don't think so. We're almost out of fuel." He scratches the bridge of his nose. "Maybe close to the Oklahoma border though."

Dean flashes a bright grin. "That's good enough for me."

Patrick directs them toward the back of the tank. "Where are you folks trying to get to?"

"Truth or Consequences, New Mexico," Andy says.

Patrick's forehead creases. "What's there? Family?"

Dean shakes his head. "Nope. Something better."

Patrick studies Dean's face, curious. "Yeah? What's that?"

"Hope."

oooooo

There's just enough room inside the tank. Patrick sits up front, driving. The staff sergeant is curled against the back wall of the tank, his head on a backpack, eyes closed. Dean sits closest to Patrick; Andy, Sam, and Izzy take up the remainder of the seats. The gunner turret is empty.

The inside of the tank is cramped and loud, and it reeks of sweat and urine. "This here is my home, sweet home," Patrick yells over the sound of the engine. "This baby's a M2A2 and we can go about a hundred more miles until the diesel runs out."

They jostle along in relative silence for a few minutes until Dean asks, "What happened to your sergeant?"

"A Sixer did something to him," Patrick says, his face going blank. "We were attacked ten days ago. There were two of them. One of them set the regular sarge on fire and killed three of the other men. The other Sixer did something...else. Jimmy hasn't been the same since. We're the only two that got away." Patrick's jaw works. "At first, he just screamed, I couldn't get him to shut up. Five days ago he just went quiet. He stopped talking, stopped eating, stopped doing anything. I try to make him drink but..." Patrick's chin trembles and he clears his throat. "Well. It don't look too good."

Dean glances at Sam during the exchange but Sam's head is down. He's staring into his lap. Dean's pretty sure the noise of the tank drowned out the news about the Sixers. Patrick shakes his head in disgust. "This whole thing is so fucked up. Right from the get-go." His lip curls. "We didn't have a chance. I mean, a lot of us came over from Desert Storm, you know? We're used to fighting people. Normal people. Not all this fucked up Harry Potter shit."

Dean's incredulous. "They didn't train you at all?"

"Train us? How?" Patrick scoffs. "What the fuck do you do with a demon?"

Dean's teeth clench. "For starters, you use silver and holy water. And Latin." He slouches in his seat. "What a gigantic fuck-all."

Patrick snorts. "That, my friend, is an understatement." He glances at Dean. "Are you serious about the holy water and Latin shit?"

Dean nods. "As a heart attack."

"Well it would have been nice to know that a little earlier," Patrick snaps, "because it's pretty fuckin hard to shock and awe a demon. We were going through ammo like it was water and they're smashing our tanks like piñatas. Lighting our guys on fire like they're wood." He brushes a hand across his eyes. "And when we're not being fucked up the ass by demons, we've got the Sixers trying to pick us off."

Dean reaches a tentative hand toward Patrick's shoulder, then stops. He leans forward instead. "I'm sorry, man. I wish we could have had a chance to train you properly."

"Well hell, it's not over yet, is it? Do you hear a fat lady singing?"

Dean snorts. "I guess I don't. Not yet, anyway. We'd be happy to help you."

"Good. You can start by telling me what the fuck a Christo is."

oooooo

The M2A2 gives up the ghost earlier than expected. Patrick manages to drive the tank off the road and into a parched field, dead husks of corn crunching beneath the heavy wheel track. They pile out of the tank beneath the moon's weak light; Andy and Patrick unload Jimmy as gently as they can, and they set up camp behind the tank.

They eat some apples that aren't quite rotten, a few crackers, and some of the shoe-flavored jerky. Patrick sits against the side of the tank. He picks up a dried ear of corn and taps it idly against one boot. "So what's so great about Truth or Consequences, New Mexico?"

No one says anything for a long moment, then Dean grins. "I like the sound of it."

Patricks nods. "I saw some graffiti a while back. Painted on the side of a concrete retaining wall." He smiles thinly. "You know what it said?"

Dean watches him. "I can guess."

"What do you think it means, finding hope in Truth and all that shit?"

Sam's hands are untied and he's playing with a thin strip of jerky. "Second chances," he says, his voice soft and a little wistful. He reaches out to Dean. "Do you want this?"

Dean frowns. Patrick looks hard at Sam. "What's the matter? You only like food you can steal?"

Dean's frown pulls tight, and he swallows down a series of _shut the fuck ups_. It's not Patrick's fault he thinks Sam's a thief. _Let it go._ "You should eat," he tells Sam.

Sam drops the food into Dean's lap. "I'm not very hungry," he says, and stands. He wipes his hands against the thighs of his jeans and starts toward the far edge of the field.

"Hey," Dean calls after him, heart lurching. "Where do you think you're going?"

Sam stops and turns back to Dean. "To talk to Izzy."

Sure enough, now Dean can see a dark shape walking amongst the ruined stalks. An Izzy shape. Dean huffs and waves Sam off.

"Why do you let that asshole travel with you?" Patrick demands.

Dean turns back to Patrick, his eyes hard and flat. "Because that _asshole_ is my brother."

Patrick gapes at Dean in confusion. Dean holds his gaze, his eyes burning holes into Patrick's face. Patrick reads the _just_ _drop it_ loud and clear. So he does.

oooooo

"Do you ever look up at the sky and think it's just black construction paper?" Izzy wonders. She smiles in the darkness. "Like maybe God is playing with scissors and poking holes in the universe? And the stars are just the light from heaven shining through?"

Sam glances up at the night sky and hunches his shoulders. "Not really. Stars are just balls of flaming gas."

Izzy wrinkles her nose. "_You're_ a ball of flaming gas."

Sam blinks, then snorts laughter. "What...what does that even mean?"

Izzy shrugs, then smiles. "I don't know. It just sounded funny."

"Do you really think the stars are holes God made with giant scissors?"

Izzy considers. "They don't have to be _giant_ scissors." She pauses, then sighs. "No. Not really." She looks pensive in the moonlight. "But wouldn't it be cool?"

"I don't know." Sam's hands are clasped together behind his back – he's used to the position now. "I don't know if I believe in God anymore."

They walk the edge of the field together. "You used to?"

"I think so," Sam says softly. "It's hard to remember sometimes. I used to believe in angels, and hope and forgiveness." His voice takes on a hard edge. "I don't really believe in any of that now."

Izzy doesn't answer right away. She bends down and picks up a few corn husks. "When I was little my mom used to make dolls out of corn husks," she finally says.

Sam lifts an eyebrow. "She did?"

She nods. "Yeah." She laughs and rolls her eyes. "They were ugly as shit. She used to make those little dried up apple face dolls too." She shudders. "You know, the ones that look like they'll come alive at night and stab you with a paring knife?"

Sam grins. "I think we hunted something like that once."

"You know what else my mom used to do?"

"What?"

"She was always spouting little sayings. The kind you'd stitch onto a pillow or something." Izzy's grin turns rueful. "Of course once my voices started, she sort of ran out of helpful homilies. But you know what she said that's stuck with me?"

Sam shakes his head.

"She said...the person who forgives others, but not himself, can never be happy."

Sam avoids her gaze. "She must have needed a really big pillow for that one."

Izzy glares at him. "_Sam._"

Sam stops walking, takes a step back. "Izzy. I get what you're trying to say. And – and I know you're just trying to be nice. But I can't...it doesn't..." he takes a halting breath. "I–just can't. You don't know the things I've done. " He takes another step. "You can't know. You _can't_."

He turns and walks away, long strides through the dark.

And then he's running.

oooooooo

Andy's beside the campfire, almost asleep. He's not really thinking about anything, except maybe how tired he is. Before the world went to hell, he never knew you could be this tired and live.

Sam's voice makes him jump. "Andy."

Andy jerks into a sitting position. "Jesus, Sam. Sneak up, much?"

Sam drops to his knees and holds his hands out in front of him. "Tie my hands."

Andy stares at him. "What? No." But Sam's face is a pale oval of desperation. Andy bites his lip. "Just...just go to sleep."

Sam makes a sound low in his throat. Andy can't tell exactly what it means, but he definitely doesn't like it. "Sleep? Are you fucking kidding me?" Sam's voice is a growl.

"Uh, maybe I should get Dean." Andy looks around, spots Dean talking to the army guy over by the tank.

Sam's hand closes over Andy's. Andy looks down at Sam's hand; thinks, _his hands are fucking _huge. "No. He'll just...he won't want to. I...," Sam shakes his head quickly, as if a cloud of gnats are buzzing around his ears. "I...keep _thinking_, and it makes me want to...makes it hard to sleep," he finishes. He swallows and keeps staring at Andy, his eyes much too wide.

Andy opens his mouth, closes it. He sighs and pulls the rope out of his pack. "Okay," he says, agreeing against his better judgment. "Put your hands out."

Sam smiles and exhales, as if Andy just gave him a fucking compliment, rather than just agreeing to tie him up. Andy wraps the rope around Sam's wrists and pulls tight, knotting the rope the way Dean showed him. He looks up at Sam. "How's that?"

Sam looks down at his hands. He flexes, and red welts pop up along his wrists almost immediately. Andy grimaces. "Shit. I'm sorry, let me–"

Sam pushes himself up and away before Andy can reach him. "No. You did good. Thanks, Andy." He walks a few feet away and sits himself down, cross-legged, away from the firelight.

Andy lies back against the dry earth. He doesn't feel tired anymore.

ooooo

When Dean wakes up the next morning he finds Patrick bent over Jimmy. He walks over, tentative. "Patrick?"

Patrick looks up. His eyes are red-rimmed, but his face is blank. He puts a trembling hand on his friend's chest. "He's dead."

Dean sighs. He's had it up to _here_ with pain and loss and death. He wishes he hadn't gotten up yet. Wishes he could just skip this part. Wishes he and Sam were about a million miles from here with nothing to worry about except ugly motel rooms and pissy ghosts. Instead, he does his best Sam impersonation. He doesn't have the puppy dog eyes, but he can do heartfelt and sincere when he has to. "I'm sorry," he says quietly. And he is.

Patrick stays with them. Nobody says much about it. By late afternoon, Dean spots a sign that reads _Tulsa in 5 miles_ and thinks _thank God_. And beyond the sign, off the highway, is something that makes his feet stop in mid-step.

He stares for a long moment, then runs to the shoulder of the road.

Sam appears at his side. "Are you okay?"

Dean has no words. Coherent thought has left for parts unknown. He points instead, mouth hanging open, waiting for flies.

Sam follows Dean's finger and blinks.

And then Izzy's dragging Andy over, screaming at the top of her lungs. "Holy Christ on a crutch you guys, it's a fucking _cow_!"

And it is.

Bessy or Daisy or whatever the fuck is standing in the middle of a backyard munching what's left of the grass beneath a towering oak tree. It looks so out of place that Dean rubs his eyes. He's dreaming. He's got to be.

But Patrick and Andy are scrambling down the embankment and toward the crumpled barb-wire fence that separates the highway from the residential neighborhood.

The cow is still there, chewing calmly.

"I don't believe it," Dean breathes. He slaps Sam on the back, his face lit with something that might be joy. "Dude, we're gonna eat fucking _steak_ tonight."

Izzy's already chasing Andy, yelling _here cow, nice cow_ in saccharine tones.

Sam allows Dean to lead him down the gravel slope and over the fence.

Izzy ruffles Andy's hair, giggling. "Just tell it to lie down and die."

He rolls his eyes at her. "I'm gonna tell you to lie down and die if you don't shut up."

The cow turns her head and blinks at all them, unconcerned.

Dean rubs the stubble edging his jaw. "Everybody hold on," he says quietly, "are we even alone out here?"

Izzy tilts her head, listens. She nods. "We're not picking anything up."

The backyard is quiet. There's a rusted swing set and a green plastic turtle-shaped sandbox. There's something Dean's pretty sure is a human femur sticking out of the sand like a shovel handle. The houses around them don't look damaged. They stand tall and silent, judging.

Dean points to the sandbox. "Let's look around a little before we break out the buffet," Dean suggests quietly. "Maybe there's canned food around here. Clothes. Boots. And maybe the folks here aren't too eager to share."

Izzy turns toward a blank window. "I'd give my left boob for toilet paper and tampons."

Andy chuckles and Dean cracks a weary smile. "Classy, Iz." He nods toward the house Izzy is eyeballing. "Why don't you, Andy, and Patrick check the house."

Patrick casts a doubtful look at Izzy. "Why don't you come?" he suggests. "Andy and Sam can kill the fatted calf."

"No." Sam's voice is too loud.

Dean can almost hear Sam start to crack and he puts a firm hand on Patrick's shoulder, gives him a gentle push. "We're fine. You check the house."

Patrick is clearly annoyed, but he follows orders. Dean watches him go, and it feels strange to be the one giving orders, not taking them. Even after all these months, he's not used to being in charge. It feels like a mistake. But so far, no one seems to have noticed.

"And be careful," Dean hisses. He turns back to Sam.

"Sam, what the–"

Sam's trying to get up the embankment and back onto the highway. Between the loose gravel and his tied hands, he's not having much luck. But then his shoes find purchase and he's going, going, _gone_.

oooooo

_Then._

They're lined up along the road like cattle. Five of them, all on hands and knees. Most cry or beg, but two of them are silent.

Jason steps forward, rests his hand on an elderly man's head. Sam can see a few wisps of white hair and a speckling of liver spots along the man's scalp. The man's voice is thin and reedy, almost musical. "Please. Please don't–"

Jason's hand tightens against the man's head, and he pitches forward bonelessly. Blood _gushes_ from the old man's eyes, nose and mouth. The woman next to him trembles on her hands and knees, but she doesn't beg. She doesn't cry. She just looks up at Sam with large, resigned eyes.

The Sixer grins at Sam. "Your turn," he says with a flourish.

Sam grins back. Once, in another life, he was possessed. The details are murky now, buried between yellowed pages of memory. He remembers he had no control over his body. The demon dealt death with Sam's hands and he was helpless to stop it.

Now Sam is in control. His hands deal death of their own volition. He has the power to do whatever he wants, whenever he wants. And what he wants is to kill. He kills for the Commander, because it's his job, because it's what he does. But he also kills because he _likes_ it.

The woman watches him with wide rolling eyes and Sam winks at her.

Jason sighs loudly next to him. "Hurry up and kill the fucking cow, Samuel," he huffs. "We've got things to do, places to be."

"Shut up," Sam snaps, irritated. "I like to take my time." He pulls his knife from its sheath and touches the woman's limp hair with the blade. He looks at her with soulful eyes, almost tenderly. "Do you like pain?" he asks her, as if he's asking if she likes ice cream. He squats in front of her, touches her cheek gently. "Because I do."

oooooooo

_Now._

Sam's feet slap the pavement. He runs as hard and fast as he can but it's not fast enough because he doesn't know how to outrun memory. He can hear Dean hollering behind him, but he doesn't stop—_can't_ stop.

He steps on a rock and skids and falls into a stalled green Chevy. His shoulder bounces off the hood and pain jolts down his arm. He can't catch himself because his hands are still tied, and the momentum throws him off the car and tumbling onto the ground. He lands on one hip and lies still, pain radiating through his muscles.

Dean arrives, his fingers assessing damage before he's at a full stop. Sam wants to tell him not to bother, that all the damage is inside his head, but he keeps silent, breathing hard.

"Jesus, Sam. This isn't a good time to go out for track." Dean unties the rope around Sam's wrists and shoves it into his back pocket.

Dean stands and offers a hand to Sam, and Sam takes it and lets Dean pull him up, shrugging, his mouth a stubborn line. He can't tell Dean about this. He wants to choke down the memories, but they keep clawing their way out. It's what he deserves, he knows that, but it's hard, it's so hard to keep breathing with the knowledge of what he's done. His past is a chain wound around his head and his heart, and each day it pulls tighter, it pulls him apart.

Dean puts a hand on Sam's shoulder, shakes him a little. "Sam, we've got to talk about this."

Sam wants to laugh, because how many times have those words come out of _his_ mouth? How many times over the years has he begged Dean for any little scrap of what's in his head? And now _Dean_ wants to talk? Sam feels sorry for him. Talking won't help. It's too late for talking. It's too late for everything.

Sam hangs his head, shoulders slumped. "Dean, I didn't mean to—" he jerks his head up, eyes wide.

Dean's hand squeezes Sam's shoulder. "What?"

"Something's wrong."

Dean snorts. "Fuckin A, Sherlock. We both know that."

Sam shrugs Dean's hand off, turns back toward the house their friends went into. "No. Something…else." He can feel it in the pit of his stomach, in the way the hairs along his arms stand up. He grabs Dean's arm and pulls him back in the direction they came. "Come on."

Dean jogs beside him. "Is it your Spidey sense?"

"It's _something_," Sam grunts, already breaking into the lead.

oooooo

The back door is locked. So is the front. Andy shatters the front window with the butt of his gun, and Izzy climbs through and unlocks the front door. Patrick and Andy enter slowly, guns drawn. "Christo!" Andy calls.

Silence greets them.

Dust motes dance above an old television set. A faded family photo adorns one wall, four faces smiling out at an empty room. "Hello?" Izzy calls. "Is anyone here?"

They make their way into the kitchen. It's chaos. Silverware and broken dishes litter the floor. A butcher knife flaking dried blood sticks out of a cutting board. There's more blood on the wall, in the sink, on the handle of the back door. In the corner there's a broken doll. Patrick bends down to pick a white object off the floor, then flinches and drops it, shaking his hand as if he's been burned.

"What is it?" Izzy asks.

"I think it was a dog ear," he says, voice thick with disgust.

Andy frowns. "I don't know about this place." He flicks a look from Izzy to Patrick. "You think they had the Disease here?"

Izzy worries at her lower lip. "I hope not."

Patrick kicks the severed ear across the room. "A more important question is, do they have running water?"

Andy reaches out and turns on the tap. Water dribbles out. "Looks like."

Izzy opens a large cupboard. "And there's soup. Oh my God!" She pulls out a box and holds it up triumphantly. "And Pop-Tarts!"

"So far, so good," Andy says. "Let's check the next room."

The kitchen leads into a dining room, complete with a large oak table and an upright piano. Sprawled on the floor is a woman. Brown stringy hair obscures part of her face, but the visible part of her face is wrinkled and leathery. A fly crawls across one cheek. The skin is stretched tight across her face, the shape of her skull prominent: she's a skeleton in a flowered dress.

Izzy's hand goes to her mouth. "Is she…dead?"

"I think so," Andy says.

Patrick moves closer, squats beside her. "She certainly looks dead. She looks like a fucking zombie."

The woman moves cat quick. One minute she's a zombie on the floor, the next she's got one spidery hand over Patrick's and is driving a screwdriver down through both their hands and into dusty floorboards.

Patrick shrieks in pain, but the woman just throws her head back and laughs. She pulls the screwdriver out and raises it to stab Patrick again, but Andy's got her beneath stick-thin arms and is pulling her away.

Izzy backs against the piano, screaming, "She's got the Disease! She's sick!"

The woman struggles against Andy, flailing with the bloody screwdriver. She gets an elbow against his chest and sends him sprawling. She looks mostly dead, but she's strong.

The back door smashes in, and then Sam and Dean are in the kitchen. Dean's got his gun drawn, and Sam hangs back a little, hands at his sides. "What's going on?" Dean barks.

Patrick cradles his wounded hand against his chest, his M-9 pistol aimed at the woman's face. His voice is shrill and spirals higher with each word. "That bitch has the Disease and she fucking stabbed me. She stabbed me!"

The woman turns in a slow circle, her eyes skittering from face to face. "I'm gonna kill you all," she hisses. "I'm gonna tear off your skin and break your bones."

"Sorry, I'm gonna have to take a rain check on that," Dean says. He shows her his gun and flips the safety off.

But Patrick shoots first. The woman's head explodes into pulp.

"Fuck!" Andy screams and wipes at his face. "Get it off, get it off!"

"I had her," Dean yells, pissed, "what the fuck was that?" He stalks across the room and pulls the M-9 out of Patrick's hand. "What if you got Andy infected?"

"I'm more interested in me getting infected," Patrick bites back.

Izzy's at Andy's side, wiping his face off with her shirt. "It's okay," she whispers. "I think you're okay."

The woman is a heap on the floor and Dean starts pacing. "Shit," he says. "Shit."

"What do we do?" Andy asks.

"My parents died from this," Patrick says. "My whole fucking _town_ died from this."

"Maybe you'll be okay," Sam says softly. "Maybe you won't get sick."

Dean runs a hand through his hair. It stands up in soft spikes. "Look Patrick, I'm sorry, but…" He frowns and taps the barrel of the gun against his leg.

Patrick's eyes slit. "You are not shooting me. You think that's the answer?" He's incredulous. Furious.

"I don't know what the answer is!" Dean yells.

Patrick's face is pale, his forehead beaded with sweat. "I'm not going to hurt anybody."

Dean shakes his head, resigned. "You don't know that."

Izzy puts an arm around Andy. "Are you okay?"

Andy looks stunned. "I…I don't know."

"Can you make Patrick calm down?" she asks.

Patrick turns suspicious eyes on Andy. "What does that mean? Make me calm down, how?"

"It doesn't mean anything," Dean holds a hand out. "Let's all take a breath, here."

"Fuck that!" Patrick spits. "I was just stabbed with a screwdriver and you all think I'm about to go on some kind of rampage."

"We don't think that," Sam says. "Nobody thinks that."

Patrick glares at Sam. "Don't talk to me. I don't know what your deal is, but the fact they keep you tied up like a dog tells me you are one fucked-up dude. And I don't feel like being patronized by any fucked-up dudes right now."

The empathy drains out of Sam's face and he nods woodenly. "Fine."

"He's trying to help," Dean snaps.

"How?" Patrick screams. "How can any of you help? Do any of you assholes have a cure I don't know about?"

Andy pushes himself to his feet. Most of the blood is off his face, but his hair is still matted with bits of gore and bone. "Calm down," Andy tells Patrick, "everything will be okay."

Patrick pulls in a shuddering breath. "Yeah. All right. Everything will be okay," he repeats. He closes his eyes, lets his shoulders relax. His eyes snap back open. "What the fuck? Was that?" He puts his good hand to his head and pinches the bridge of his nose. "You doing some kind of mind trick on me?" Patrick's eyes bulge. "Are you a Sixer?"

Andy and Dean exchange a look, neither one answers.

"Answer me!" Patrick demands.

Sam steps forward. "I'm a Sixer."

Dean glares at his brother. "Do you really think _now's_ the time to tell the truth, Sam?" he whispers angrily.

Patrick puts a hand to his forehead. "That's why you keep him tied up! You all know what he is!"

"That's not why—we don't—" Dean scowls. "You don't understand."

"I'm a Sixer too," Andy says. Izzy squeezes his hand tightly.

Patrick sways. He looks sick. "Fuck me," he breathes. "I've been traveling with the goddamn enemy."

"We're not the enemy," Dean insists. "We're not."

"Tell that to my staff sergeant, you asshole," Patrick grits out.

"Calm down!" Andy bellows.

The tension eases out of Patrick and he nods slowly. "You're right. I am calm. Thank you." He takes a step toward Andy. "But I'm still going to kill you. I'm going to kill all of you."

The gun trembles in Dean's hand. "Patrick, come on. Try to fight it."

Patrick smiles. He looks peaceful. "Fight it? The only thing I want to fight is you." He reaches out and grabs Andy by the throat. "I'm going to crush your fucking windpipe, you freak."

"Let go of him!" Izzy screams. She grabs Patrick's ear and yanks. "I'll cut your head off if you hurt him."

The gunshot is loud. Patrick twists away from Andy, his arms flung wide, blood dripping from his hand. A flower of blood blooms over the front of his shirt. He stares at Izzy and blinks. He frowns. "Is it hot in here?" he asks. And then he's on the floor.


	3. Chapter 3

WARNING: This chapter contains self harm.

Thank you so much for all your wonderful reviews and kind words:-)

* * *

_I felt the power of death over life  
I orphaned his children, I widowed his wife  
I begged their forgiveness, I wish I was dead  
I hung my head, I hung my head.__--Johnny Cash_

Chapter 3

_Now._

He can't stop shaking. He's on the living room floor with two blankets wrapped around him, but he's still cold. Izzy keeps him company while Sam gathers supplies; Dean's burning the bodies in the backyard.

"Stop worrying," Izzy tells him. "You're not sick."

"That's easy for you to say," Andy says. "You're not the one that got covered in blood." He makes a face. "_Twice._"

Sam enters the room pulling a carry-on travel bag on wheels. "We've got soup—" he eyes Izzy "—Pop-Tarts, Cheerios, granola bars, crackers, and some dubious sandwich cookies."

Izzy's eyes light up. "Can I have a Pop-Tart? _Please_?"

Sam digs in the bag and pulls one pastry from the foil packet. "Only one, though. We have to make these last."

Izzy holds the frosted pastry as if it's made of glass. "Behold the cherry pastry." She grins at Sam. "These are my favorite food in the world."

Sam regards her. "I'm sorry you have such crappy taste."

"Food snob." Izzy turns to Andy. "If you stop freaking out, I'll give you my Pop-Tart." She smiles at him.

Andy sighs. "Iz, your crap-ass Pop-Tart is not going to save my life if I've…if I've got it."

Sam leans forward on the couch, elbows on knees, hands clasped. "Andy, did Dean tell you I got infected a few years ago? Out in Oregon?

Andy's eyes widen with surprise. "You did?"

Izzy nibbles at the pastry. "What happened?"

Sam shrugs. "I don't really know. An infected nurse cut me with a scalpel. Then she cut herself and mixed our blood. We waited for hours, but nothing ever happened."

Andy digests the information. "Do you think it's because you're…" he trails off.

Sam's laughter is hard and bitter. "Special? It's what I thought at the time. And if that's true, well, you're special too, Andy. And you didn't get cut. You can wash the blood off." He looks a little rueful. "Washing away the worry will be harder."

"You got that right." Andy stands and places the blankets next to Sam. "Does the shower work upstairs?"

"Yeah."

Andy starts toward the stairs, hesitates. "Thank you, Sam."

ooooo

Sam's eating part of Izzy's Pop-Tart when Dean comes in. He sinks down onto the couch, sighs heavily. "That sucked."

"I'm sorry about everything," Sam says.

"Unless you were the bitch who stabbed Pat earlier, I don't think you have anything to be sorry for." Dean slaps his thigh in disgust. "And you know what else? The fucking cow took a hike. Goodbye steak."

Izzy shrugs. "Maybe we'll find it again tomorrow."

Dean scowls. "This day was shit, Izzy. This year, this _decade_ has been shit. Is it too much to ask to get to eat something that doesn't come in a can?"

"Pop-Tarts come in a box," Izzy reminds him.

Dean rests his head against the back of the couch. "You like Pop-Tarts more than steak? You _are_ crazy." He notices the offending pastry in Sam's hand. "Jeez, now she's got you eating one?"

Sam nods toward Izzy. "She said she was going to sing if I didn't share with her."

Dean grins. "Then you made the right choice, cuz that bitch? Cannot carry a tune to save her life."

They drift into a comfortable silence. It feels good to be sitting on a couch. For two seconds Dean wonders if they can put wheels on it and push it along. He sighs. Sitting with Sam inside a house eating shitty snack food feels good. It feels a hell of a lot better than shooting Patrick. What a fucking mess this is. "We might as well stay here overnight," he says, "take off in the morning."

Izzy nods, still chewing. "'kay."

Dean feels Sam's eyes studying him. "Are you all right?" Sam asks.

Dean closes his eyes. He feels worn down. Old. "It's my fault, you know. I'm the one that told you guys to check out the house."

"And I'm the one who ran away like a little girl," Sam mutters darkly. "If I had stayed, things would have turned out differently."

Izzy tilts her head, listening. Her eyes shift to Sam and Dean. "Claudia says you're both retarded. And I've got to agree. It's not your fault, either of you. If you want to blame somebody, blame the demons who made the Disease. Blame Patrick for not being careful. Blame God for letting this happen." Her face turns serious. "But don't blame yourselves." She wipes her hands on the back of her jeans and pats each of them on the cheek.

"Get off me," Dean grouses. He swats her hand away, but he can't hide the faint smile that flits across his face.

oooooo

There's still water and electricity and everyone makes use of it. They give the mildewed shower a work out, and even their clothes are vaguely clean after running them through the dilapidated washing machine and dryer in the basement. By the time they leave its mid-morning.

Heavy clouds drift across a bruised sky. The sun wears a cloudy veil; it feels like weeks since they've seen sunlight. Still, the weather isn't cold and there's no rain.

Fewer cars block the highway now, and every so often, Dean makes a half-hearted attempt to hotwire a vehicle. Izzy peers through the dirty windshield of a van facing the wrong direction on an exit ramp. She can see the remains of the driver propped against the steering wheel. "Shit," she hisses, and stumbles backwards. She glares at Claudia. "You could have told me."

Claudia shrugs, eyes on the horizon. She's watching for demons. Listening. Waiting. Izzy follows Andy's pale green footsteps. His aura is a perfect spring green, the color of Granny Smith apples and Jolly Rancher candy. He's leaning against a scarred guard rail, arms folded.

"Hey." Izzy moves into the space next to him, not quite touching his elbow. "Are you okay?"

Andy squints back to where Dean is tinkering beneath the hood of a car. "I guess. I don't feel like killing everyone." He flashes a ghost of a smile. "Yet."

Izzy grins. "That's good."

She sighs, taps her heel against the ground. Claudia says, _I'm bored_. Another voice—a little boy—whispers, _I'm hungry_. Izzy tells them both to shut up.

Andy raises an eyebrow. Izzy rolls her eyes. "I wasn't talking to you, doofus."

Dean finally gives up on the car, and he and Sam head over. Dean's aura is pale blue, the color of robin eggs and summer skies – well, back when the sky actually _was_ a color. Sam's aura is blue as well, but deeper, richer. Sometimes, when he's upset, it turns even darker, edging into indigo or purple. At the moment it's the color of the ocean. _Good._

"I'm bored," Izzy complains, echoing Claudia's earlier statement. "I never realized how much I hate walking."

"Hate it all you want," Dean tells her, "just keep doing it."

Claudia whispers, _There are demons to the north_, but they don't seem to be moving, so Izzy keeps quiet. She keeps an eye on Andy, vaguely worried. She's almost positive he's not sick. She's heard stories about the Disease, and he's not acting crazy. Not like Patrick did.

_It wasn't his fault_, a voice whispers. _He didn't ask to die_. Izzy sighs. Who does?

They've been walking for what feels like a million miles when Izzy leans into Andy and bumps his shoulder with her own. "What do you miss?" she asks.

He frowns at her, rubs his shoulder. "Huh?"

Izzy laughs. "What do you _miss_? Like, if you could snap your fingers, and have one thing back, what would you pick?"

Andy scratches behind an ear. "I dunno. Pizza?"

Izzy rolls her eyes. "Out of everything we had, computers, radios, cell phones, you pick _pizza_? Oh. My. God. You are _such_ a loser."

Andy glares. "Fine, I pick…a radio. That way we could contact somebody."

"Dude, who would we contact? There aren't any working radio towers. Millions of people are dead. While you play with your useless radio, I'm having pizza."

Andy gives her an exasperated look. "And you're a bitch."

Izzy grins. "You know it."

"Hell," Dean says, "I know what I want." He flicks a grin toward Sam. "A little music. All this silence is like the seventh level of hell. Give me some Metallica, a little Black Sabbath. Led Zeppelin. Shit, at this point I'd even listen to some of Sam's emo crap."

Dean elbows Sam. "What about you?"

Izzy walks backwards, watching Sam. She holds Andy's arm for balance. Sam licks his lips and his aura shifts toward the color of twilight. _He's going to freak out_, Claudia warns.

Sam's eyes flicker from Dean to Izzy and back. He opens his mouth, closes it again, clears his throat. "Uh, the car," he mutters. "I miss the Impala." His smile is forced, awkward.

Izzy breathes again. Sam's lying, but he's playing along. She tries to catch his eye, but he's watching the ground.

"Dude!" Dean's face lights up. "You miss my baby?" He grins. "I miss her too." He sighs, wistful. "She was a good girl."

Sam's lip curls. "She was a _car_, Dean. I can't believe—"

_Isobel!_ Claudia's voice is sharp in Izzy's ear and she almost jumps. She swings around, facing forward again. "What?"

_I can feel someone nearby. Not demons._

"Sixers?" Izzy whispers. A tendril of panic uncurls in her stomach.

Andy grips her arm. "Iz? What is it?"

_Not Sixers_, Claudia says. _But there's a woman about a half mile up the road. _

Izzy turns to the others. "Guys? We're going to have company."

ooooo

Sam doesn't know what to do with his hands. Dean talked him into keeping his hands free and now they feel loose. As if they'll fly off his arms if he's not paying attention. He shoves them into his pockets. He clasps them behind his back. He clenches them at his sides. Nothing feels right.

In the distance, they can see the outline of the woman Izzy told them about. She's walking a dog. Dean and Andy mutter between themselves like it's the second coming. Sam squints: it's a dirty mutt with watery eyes and a missing tail.

Dean, Andy and Izzy stop and watch the woman approach. Sam stands behind his brother, just close enough to let Dean know he's there. Dean nods at the woman. "Christo." He gestures to the dog. "Haven't seen one of those in a while."

"Christo yourself," the woman says. She's tall and solid, with close-cropped gray hair. She's in her late forties, early fifties, with a kind face and a big smile; she reminds Sam of Missouri. The woman pats the dog's head affectionately. "My name's May. This here scrap of fur is Lazarus." The dog rubs his head against her leg. "We just call him Lazlo."

Dean lets the dog sniff his hand. "It's not that safe out here when you're on your own," he tells May, "even if you do have a guard dog. You're welcome to travel with us if you want."

May smiles. "First of all, this old mutt couldn't guard his way out of a paper bag. He's a coward, through and through. And your offer is a kind one, but I'm not by myself. I'm just out for my morning stroll. My camp is just over that hill."

Sam moves beside Dean. "You're…camping?"

May smiles, a hint of pride on her face. "We sure are. There's about fifteen of us now. We've got four tents. You're welcome to come have a bite to eat, take a load off if you want."

Dean offers his hand to May. "I'm Dean, by the way. This is Sam, that's Andy, and that's Izzy. We really appreciate the invitation, May, but I think we're going to—"

Izzy shoots Dean a dark look. "I'm hungry."

Dean keeps right on talking. "—keep moving. We've got a ways to go and—"

Izzy raises her voice over Dean's. "I want to sit down."

Dean laughs nervously and hisses out of the corner of his mouth, "And I want you to shut up. Think either of us will get our wish?"

May shrugs. "We're just about to sit down to a late lunch. You're welcome to join us."

Sam nudges Dean. _What can it hurt?_

Dean scowls at Izzy. "Fine."

May chuckles. "Did I mention there's chicken?"

Dean stares at May, then grins wide enough to crack his face. "Well hell, why didn't you say so in the first place?"

ooooo

Four small tents form a multi-colored square near the edge of an orchard. Sam hangs back while the others follow May and Lazlo. Men and women are scattered across the camp, involved in various chores: picking apples, preparing food, tending a fire, comforting a crying child. Lazlo bounds over to a little boy and tries to lick his face, and the boy laughs and throws his arms around the animal's neck.

Two teenage girls pass out Styrofoam cups of apple slices. A woman sits in the doorway of one of the tents, swathed in blankets. Her face is covered, a pair of dark eyes peering out at the activity.

Dean and May are chatting about something, and Sam can hear the sound of Izzy's laughter. Andy's watching the little boy play with the dog. Sam stops walking. He watches the woman in the tent.

_Something's wrong._

His mouth goes dry.

_I can't be here._

His palms are slick with sweat.

Dean looks back at him, the_ what the fuck, dude?_ clear on his face.

Sam shakes his head, helpless, rooted to the spot. He has to leave before they

The woman's eyes are on him now; drilling into him.

For a brief instant nothing happens. A breeze rustles a tree branch. An apple falls, bounces, rolls. The dog barks. Izzy brushes a strand of hair out of her face.

Sam's stomach falls, and he tries to move, but it's too late, because the dark eyes go wide with shock, then horror. The woman's mouth opens and Sam wants time to stop, _just stop. _His heart hammers, his hands shake. _Please, not now, not ever, don't let them know what_

The woman's scream tears through the camp.

ooooo

_Then._

Sam's fist slams into the hunter's face and he can feel the bones give beneath his curled fingers. The man grunts and drops to his knees, and Sam's hand comes away sore and covered in blood. The hunter's wife is screaming like a fucking siren, and she won't shut up. All the noise in the world won't save this asshole—he's already killed four Sixers and a couple of demons. His hunting days are over.

Sam lifts the hunter like he's weightless and launches him across the room. The woman's screams taper off and melt into sobs. The hunter's face is a pulpy mess, he tries to speak, but nothing comes out but garbled sounds. Sam walks over to him, whistling softly, his mood improved now that the sound level's gone down some. He looks at his watch. He has plenty of time for a little fun.

Sam brings his boot down on the man's face. His skull breaks with a dull crunch. Sam stomps a few more times before he backs up and wipes his boot on the worn carpet. He exhales heavily and stretches the muscles in his neck.

Somewhere, Dean is looking for him. Sam knows this because he knows Dean. And even now, hands coated with a stranger's blood, Sam loves Dean. He wants to see Dean again. He's looking forward to it.

Of course, the downside is, he'll have to kill him.

The hunter's wife is on her knees, weeping over what's left of her husband. Sam pulls out his knife and grins. He squats down beside the woman, tucks a strand of lank hair behind her ear. "I'm sorry for your loss," he says, voice thick with empathy he no longer feels.

"Don't kill me," she keens.

"I'm not going to kill you," he says, and puts a hand on her shoulder. "But you'll wish you were dead when I'm done."

ooooo

_Now._

There are loud voices.

People yelling. Screaming. One of the voices belongs to Dean, but Sam can't understand what he's saying, he can't understand anything except shame and fear and revulsion. He abruptly leans forward, hands on his knees, and vomits into the grass.

There's a noise and a clump of grass near Sam's shoe jumps into the air. Sam wipes his face and looks up. His head is pounding and he feels dizzy.

The woman with the eyes is standing outside the tent, a grim-faced man next to her. He's holding a rifle, and it's pointed at Sam.

Dean's got his own gun aimed at the man, and his voice is dangerous, the sound of a rusty blade. "You shoot that thing again and I'm gonna put you in the ground."

May's face has gone pale. She looks at Dean like she's been sucker-punched. "You brought a Sixer here? A _Sixer_?"

Sam swallows hard, throat sore. His mouth tastes like acid. He takes a step toward the woman and she shrinks back against the man. The blanket around her head has come loose.

"Jesus Christ." Andy's voice is soft and breathless.

Izzy makes a low moaning noise.

Dean doesn't say anything. But Sam can see the muscles work hard in his jaw, in his neck.

_This is what I did_, Sam thinks. _I did this._

The woman's face is horrorific. It's a mass of mottled pink scars. Her nose and ears are gone. Her lips are split and misshapen. Only her eyes are clear and perfect. Now, they leak tears. She holds up a notebook and shakes it at the man, and he takes it from her, his eyes on Sam.

"This is my sister," the man says. He turns the notebook around and points to the scrawled words. "You see this? It says, _he did this to me_." The man nods at Sam.

Sam takes another step toward the woman. "I'm sorry," he says. And then again, "I'm sorry."

There's silence except for the woman's weeping.

Sam's stomach clenches and he's afraid he's going to throw up again. He keeps talking anyway. "I have no excuse for what I did," he says, "but I'm not the same man. I'm not. And I know I can't make it better and I know I can't fix it," he eyes slide to the woman's ruined face, "but I want you to know how sorry I am, how fucking _sorry_ I am." He drops to his knees, arms outstretched, beseeching. He realizes there are tears on his face. He and the woman are the only ones crying. "I'm…so…sorry."

The man drops the notebook and lowers his gun at Sam. "You're about to be a whole lot sorrier."

"Drop the gun!" Dean bellows.

"It's okay," Sam says. "I deserve it, Dean."

"Fuck that and fuck you," Dean grinds out. "Get on your feet."

Sam doesn't move.

Izzy stumbles against a tree and covers her face.

Andy's hands pull at Sam's arm. "Get up," he says weakly. "Get up, Sam."

May's mouth is a thin line of rage. "Hank, you put that gun down." Her eyes swivel to Dean. "You too."

"He's a fucking murderer," Hank cries, outraged. "He killed Liam. Look what he did to Dana!" He grabs his sister and pushes her forward. "Look. What. He. Did. To. Her."

Dana wrings her hands and stares at the ground, trembling. She opens her mouth and makes a thin wailing noise.

"He cut her tongue out," Hank says. "She can't talk. She can't even tell you what he did to her."

Sam's eyes are pinned to Dana. "I'm sorry. Dana. I'm sorry."

"I don't care if you're sorry or not," Hank hisses. "Sorry don't mean shit!"

Sam drops his head. Andy's still plucking at his arm, trying to move him, but Sam doesn't want to be moved.

Dean takes a few steps backwards until he's level with Sam. He grabs Sam's other arm and helps Andy pull him up. "Come on Sam, we've gotta go."

Hank ratchets another round into the chamber. "Nobody's going anywhere."

"Put your gun down," Andy says loudly.

Hank stares for a long beat, then gently sets the gun on the ground.

"There are two Sixers," a panicked voice yells.

"You're all going to stay here and let us go," Andy continues. "Nobody is going to follow us. Do you understand?"

All eyes from the camp are on Andy. A few heads nod.

"You're going to forget we were here."

"No," Sam starts, "I have to—"

"You have to _move_," Dean grits, pulling at Sam. Sam lets Andy and Dean pull him backwards, and finally, his feet move on their own. "Izzy," Dean snaps, "haul ass, _now_."

Izzy starts running, one hand still pressed to her face. She doesn't look at Sam.

Sam eyes are still seeping tears. Izzy won't look at him. It feels like there are snakes in his stomach. His blood is poison. He's not real. This isn't real. None of this is happening. Somewhere, he's with Jess and they're laughing and her hand is on his and—

Sam's breath hitches in his throat and he wants this _painshameguilt_ to end. He wants to go back five seconds in time and let Hank pull the trigger. He can feel Dean's steel grip pressing into his arm, hear the sound of feet running on pavement. His feet.

_Izzy hates me now. They all hate me. They know what I did. They know what I was-–what I am. They _know.

His heart is beating so fast and so hard it feels like his ribs are breaking. He wishes it would just get the fuck out of him, wishes he could pull the beating heart out and throw it away because it's no good to him now. It's ruined, just like Dana's face.

Sam shakes Dean and Andy off and heads for Izzy. She flinches away from him, but his hands scrabble at her belt. He grabs something shiny, then pushes her into Andy. Andy stumbles, but he keeps Izzy upright and they both stare at him.

Sam blinks at them. He's sorry to scare Izzy, but it's necessary. It doesn't matter much, though, because he's got what he needs now. Relief is in sight, it's in his hand, it's _tangible_. And then he's running again. He's always running.

But he never has anywhere to go.

ooooo

"Fuck!" Dean lunges after Sam, but Sam's in freaky panic mode and Dean can't quite catch him. He whirls on Izzy. "What'd he do?"

Izzy's face is grey. "I—he pushed me."

"I know that, Einstein, I wanna know why."

She pats her pockets, and her eyes go wide. "Shit."

Dean's hands find their way to his hair. "Shit? What's shit?"

"My knife is gone. He's got my knife."

Dean's eyes clamp shut and he counts to five. _One_. He'll find Sam. _Two_. Sam will be okay. _Three_. Sam cut that woman's nose off. Her fucking _nose_. _Four_. Sam. He's got to concentrate on finding Sam. _Five_. Sam's got a _knife_. He snaps his eyes open and starts down the highway.

Sam isn't in sight. (_He's got a knife_.)

It takes Dean a minute to realize he's walking by himself. He turns back to Andy and Izzy, and they're just standing there. "Come on," he barks.

Andy shuffles forward, but Izzy hangs back, her mouth pulled into a tight line of dismay. Dean glares at her, daring her to keep still. "You got a problem?" he asks, voice harsh.

Izzy rubs her nose. "Did you see what he did?" she asks brokenly.

It takes Dean three paces to reach her. One fist digs into the front of her shirt, and he hauls her up until she's on her tiptoes. His face is almost pressed to hers, nostrils flaring. "I saw what he did," he grits. "It was pretty hard to miss. But he's my _brother_. None of us can change what he did. We can only change what he's going to do. And he has _your_ knife. And in case you haven't noticed, he's been a little bit _down_ lately." Dean shakes her. "If you're too fucking traumatized to help me find Sam, you better find someone else to walk with. Because you're not welcome with us. With _me_." Dean's lip curls into a snarl. "I'm sorry that Sam cut that girl to shit. I think it's obvious _he's_ sorry. What I _don't_ want is for him to cut _himself_ to shit." Dean releases her and she takes a faltering step backwards. "So are you coming?" He _stares_ at her. "Or are you going?"

Izzy swallows, eyes swimming with tears. "I'm—I'm coming."

Dean allows his hands to unclench. "Then tell me which way his fucking footprints go."

ooooo

Sam bounds over the guard rail and lands easily in the tall grass. His legs scissor a path through the thick overgrowth and he heads for a nearby stand of trees. He doesn't spare the time to look back because he's afraid he'll see Dean, and he can't bear to see the look (_disgust hate disappointment_) on Dean's face.

There are ten or twelve trees and he ducks behind a huge maple toward the back of the copse. He feels like he's coming apart. His skin is full of hidden seams and they're all ripping open, invisible thread unwinding, and in another second there'll be nothing left of him but bits of bone and guilt. Something's wrong with him. Something _besides_ the fact he's a fucking monster and murderer and a freak. It feels like his blood is bubbling (_boiling_) inside his veins. There's too much pressure inside him (_pushing on the seams_), and he realizes the pressure, the _buzzing_ isn't his blood at all – it's something else, something worse. He's not normal (_he never was_). He's broken, wrong. His body is filled with poison, bile, (_memories_) tar, acid. And there's only one way to get the poison out.

He pushes up one sleeve, then the other. When he presses the knife to his skin, his hand is steady.

ooooo

Dean wants to scream Sam's name until he's hoarse. He wants to scream Sam's name until the stupid asshole shows up with a sheepish, big-eyed look on his face. But he doesn't scream, because he doesn't want to alert the fuckers back at Camp Apple, and he knows from the way his gut feels that Sam isn't going to pop out from behind some dead car with a grin and a _just kidding_. The Sam that joked with him, the Sam that smiled, the Sam that felt something beyond guilt is not here. That Sam has left the building--and Dean's afraid he's not coming back.

Dean loves this fucked-up version of Sam just as much as the old version, but this new Sam scares the shit out of him. Because this Sam is already broken, and the only thing holding him together is Dean, and Dean's not sure he's doing such a bang-up job. This Sam is filled with shadows and self-hate, and after seeing Dana's face, Dean can understand why.

But what Sam doesn't understand—what he doesn't get—is that in the big picture, Dean doesn't care about Dana. He's cut Dana's face off himself if it meant saving Sam. Hell, he'd cut his _own_ face off if it meant saving Sammy.

ooooo

He was only going to make the one cut, but he can't stop. It's like magic. Something has unclenched in his chest and he can breathe again. The buzzing in his head, beneath his skin, has been pushed back to a level he can tolerate. It's just white noise now. All he has to do is get the poison out.

His fingers search the edge of the deepest cut and he squints, concentrating, tongue between his teeth. He can't see anything but blood. Just blood. It's not right, there should be black oil tar spilling from his arm.

"Sam."

Sam looks up and there's Dean, standing a few feet away. Huh. Sam didn't even hear him coming. Sam smiles and prods at the cut. "I'll be done in minute," he says. "I'm just trying to get it all out."

Dean's face looks funny. It almost looks like he's crying. And _that's_ just weird. "Are you okay?" Sam asks.

Dean laughs, and his laugh sounds wrong too, but Sam is a little too preoccupied trying to bleed out everything he's done to ask again.

"Put the knife down, Sam. Please." Dean's voice is rough, and he moves slowly over to Sam, sinks down beside him. He holds his hand out. "Give it to me."

Sam frowns. "Dude, you're in my light." He puts a bloody hand on Dean's chest and pushes gently. "Back up."

Andy and Izzy come into the brake of trees holding hands. It looks like they're trying to hold each other up. Izzy cries out when she sees the blood all over Sam's arm, dripping in a steady rhythm onto the moss-covered ground. Sam glances up at her. "Hey, Izzy."

Andy's voice is careful. "Put the knife down, Sam."

Sam blinks at Andy. "I'm not done."

Andy licks his lips. "I'm—I'm worried about you."

"We're all worried about you, Sparky," Dean says. He tries to smile, but fails. His voice gets hard. "Just give me the fucking knife, Sam."

Sam shakes his head, annoyed. "I'm trying to do something."

The pain is good. It feels like a slow throbbing burn deep in his arm. The pain gives him something to concentrate on that's not a memory (_Dana's face, his knife_). But he can feel the memories waiting, and he's got to get them out. He cuts again, and blood bubbles up along the skin, and Dean makes a noise. Sam looks up.

Only now Dean is towering over Sam, and one foot comes down on Sam's hand, and the knife falls to the ground. Dean kicks it toward Andy and Andy steps on it. The smooth handle sticks out from under Andy's shoe.

Sam looks from Dean to Andy. He rocks back on his heels. "What the hell, Dean? I wasn't done."

Dean's eyes are bright. "Oh, you're done, Sam. You're _done_."

Sam rises to his feet. Blood flows down his arm, onto his shirt, onto his jeans, onto his shoe. It feels good. It feels _good_.

Sam points to the knife. "I need that."

Dean shakes his head. "No. You don't." He holds his hand out to Sam. "Let me see your arm."

Sam jerks away from Dean's reach. "I wasn't _done_," he repeats, panic creeping back. He wasn't done. The memories, poison, hate—it's all still inside him. He can feel it. He feels dizzy. He throws a hand against the nearest tree. His head. Hurts.

"That's kind of the point, Sam," Dean says. "To get here before you kill yourself."

Sam stares hard at the ground, willing the black dots floating in front of his eyes away. "I wasn't trying to kill myself. I told you I wouldn't do that!" The _yet_ remains unspoken between them.

"Then what the hell were you doing?" Dean demands.

Sam lifts his head and focuses on Dean. He looks blurry. "I was trying to get the poison out," he says. "And I wasn't done. Please, Dean. I need the knife back."

Sam takes a step toward Andy and sways. Dean's there with strong arms and for a second Sam feels safe. Then he remembers who (_what_) he is. "I can still feel it inside me." His voice is an urgent whisper against Dean's neck. "I was trying to get the poison out, Dean. I can feel it inside me, and I. Can't. Stand. It."

Dean's trying to talk to him now, trying to tell him soothing things like, _everything will be okay_ and _we need to fix that arm up_, but Sam doesn't want to hear it. He wants to break apart and be put back together _better_. He wants to be clean and whole and new.

He isn't any of those things now.

ooooo

Dean digs in his bag for a T-shirt, pulls one out, and rips it in half. He presses one half against Sam's arm. There are five cuts; three are no big deal, two of them are deep. The one Sam was picking at definitely needs stitches.

Sam's off in la-la land muttering about poison and tar and shit running through his veins. Dean sighs and presses his forehead against Sam's. "Listen to me," he says. "Are you listening?"

Sam finally shuts up, nods against Dean. "Okay. You are not full of poison, Sam. You're full of blood and guilt just like the rest of." Sam tries to pull away and Dean continues. "Okay, I'm sorry. You have more guilt. A lot more. And I get that, I do. But cutting yourself into pieces is not the answer. It's just not." Dean's voice drops lower. "You're all I have, Sam. You're it. I don't want you to die, okay?"

"I wasn't trying to kill myself."

"I don't want you to hurt yourself."

Sam's body shudders, but his voice doesn't. "I don't know what to do, Dean. I can't live like this."

Dean's tone leaves no room for doubt. "You can and you will." He lifts Sam's head, looks into his eyes. "For me, Sam. Live for me."

Sam shakes his head. "I don't know how."

Dean closes his eyes. He listens to the sound of Sam's breathing. His whole life he's protected Sam, but he has no idea how to protect Sam from _himself_.

"Dean."

Dean's eyes flick open. Sam's watching him. "Yeah?"

"I'm glad Jessica is dead. And dad. I'm glad they can't see me like this."

Sam's words feel like a kick in the ribs. "Sam–"

"I'm sorry _you_ can see me. I'm sorry for what I am. What I did. I'm...sorry."

Dean pulls Sam into a rough hug. "I know you're sorry, Sammy. I know. But I'm still glad you're here with me." Dean pushes Sam back and pokes him lightly between the eyes. "Do you get that? I'm _glad_ you're with me."

Sam swallows. His eyes are red-rimmed and wet. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

Dean doesn't know either. He doesn't want to find out.

He uses the last of their thread on Sam's arm. Sam's silent during the whole process. The needle goes in and out, binding skin back together, and Dean scowls through most of it, thinks Sam probably likes the pain. Andy and Izzy are supposedly looking for food, and Dean cranes his neck toward the tall grass, but doesn't see a thing. He wonders if they took off.

"You've got to stop running away," Dean says gruffly. "You're not twelve."

Sam bows his head wearily. "I'm not running away from you."

"It feels like you are." Dean sighs and ties the last stitch off. "You can't outrun your feelings, Sam." Dean's throat tightens. "Trust me."

Sam sniffs, and his forehead crinkles. "Then what do I do?"

Dean shrugs, puts the needle back in the little sewing kit, drops it into his bag. "I don't know. But I swear to God I'll help you get through this." Dean looks hard at his brother, tries to gauge how much is getting through. "You know that, right?"

Sam stares at the trees for a long second. Then he looks at Dean. He nods once. "I know."

Dean nods back. "Good." He scans the road. "Any ideas where the Wonder Twins got off to?"

ooooo

Sam tries to pretend he's fine as they walk through late afternoon and into evening. Dean wants him to be fine, so he'll try. And even if he can't actually be fine, he can at least _act_ fine.

The cuts on his arm sting beneath the makeshift bandage, and that helps a little, but he still feels like there's too much pressure inside him. He thinks about Izzy's knife, wonders if he can cut the memories out of his brain. Cut the guilt out of his heart. He thinks about going back to find Dana and giving her the knife, letting her take a turn on him.

Dean's at his side, eyebrows raised. "You okay?"

Sam tries to shape his lips into a smile. "Yeah. You?"

Dean smiles back. "Yup."

Sam's head itches beneath the baseball cap he's wearing. Dean put the cap and a pair of sunglasses on him in a half-assed attempt at a disguise. Sam hopes they can find a better disguise somewhere; something that helps him hide from himself.

Andy and Izzy are ahead of them, heads bent together. Sam tries not to think about how Izzy won't look at him. She's not talking to him either. Just how much does she hate him now? His mind wanders back to her knife and he wonders if he could get away with cutting himself while Dean's asleep. He's not sure.

Sam's hands are tied behind his back again. He didn't even have to ask--Dean just did it. Sam knows he's pretty much crazy now, but he doesn't care. A part of him knows he's just a (_not normal_) guy. He's made of skin and bones and muscles and tendons like everyone else. There's no poison, no black bile inside him – it just _feels_ like there is.

They walk until the sky turns dark and the moon hangs high above them. When they finally lie down on the edge of the macadam, no one speaks.

Sam's hands are tied in front of him now, he couldn't get the knife if he wanted to (and he does, he _does_). He looks for stars but the sky is heavy with curtains of smog. Sam blinks up into the darkness for a long time, thinking about sins and blood and penance.

ooooo

Dean wastes a little time trying to cut Sam's hair the next day, but Sam's got enough hair for a family of ten and his patience wears thin fast. In the end, Sam's hair is a little shorter and a lot messier, but the baseball cap hides most of it, and that's what he wants. He slides the sunglasses over Sam's nose. "Now you're looking cool, Captain Jack."

Sam doesn't respond.

Dean elbows Sam. "Did you hear what I said? You look cool. It's, like, a first for you."

Dean can't see Sam's good eye behind the glasses, but his mouth isn't even close to smiling. "Where are we?" Sam asks.

"Dude," Dean scolds softly. "You used to laugh on the inside at least."

Sam turns toward Dean, blank-faced. "I used to do a lot of things."

That shuts Dean up and he studies the wrinkled map from his pocket. "We're doing okay. We oughta hit Oklahoma City today." He pulls at his lip, thinking. "Maybe...what? Another four or five days until we get close to Truth or Consequences."

Andy peers at the map while chewing the remains of a cracker. He offers one to Sam and Dean but both decline. "Five more days?"

Dean nods. "Give or take."

Andy pops another cracker into his mouth. "Then let's get going."

ooooo

They take a break at an abandoned McDonald's later that day. There's not much left of the building, but the plastic picnic tables are still there.

Sam picks at a granola bar listlessly. He's not hungry. His hands are tied in front of him and he rests them on the tabletop. He can see his vague reflection in the cracked front window of the restaurant. He's a shadowy outline. A ghost. That's how he feels: incorporeal and barely here. He drops his head onto his hands. The baseball cap slides backwards but he doesn't care.

A hand rights the cap and pats the top of his head, and he looks up to see Izzy sit next him. He glances around for Dean, but Dean and Andy are both trying to run up the kiddy slide at the little play land. Sam's forehead creases. "Hey."

"I don't hate you," she says, looking down at her fingernails. She scrapes some dirt away from a cuticle. "I'm…maybe…a little scared of you though."

"I'm a lot scared of me," Sam admits with a humorless chuckle.

Izzy leans her elbows on the table and rests her chin against her fists. "It just feels weird sometimes. I was with Dean and Andy all those months looking for you, and I had to listen to Dean ramble endlessly about how you were this great person, even though you were running around killing people and all bat-shit crazy."

Sam's face pinches. "I wasn't really…crazy. I mean, yeah, I guess I was, because fuck, look at everything I've done. But it didn't feel like I was crazy. It felt like I was…happy." He can't bring himself to look at her, he can't risk seeing her face. "And I think about that all the time. How I felt." Sam rubs at his face with the palms of his hands. "It's all trapped in my head. Not just the guilt that I murdered people--innocent people--but that I didn't care. That I _liked_ it. And I feel trapped all the time. Like there's no escape from what I've done, I can't undo it, I can't go back, all I'm left with is…me. And I don't want to be me anymore." His eyes finally slide to her face and she meets his gaze.

"Well I think you're kind of stuck," Izzy says softly. "And just for the record, it's not like you're keeping us awake with campfire stories of how awesome it was to kill people. I know you're sorry for what you did. I know you'd do anything to change what happened, we all know that."

Sam rubs a finger across the pocked yellow tabletop. There's an old rust colored stain next to a cigarette burn. Maybe ketchup (_or blood_). He doesn't say anything. He doesn't want to talk about this. Certainly not with Izzy.

"You need to stop cutting yourself," she says.

Sam's stomach twists and his face closes in on itself. He exhales slowly, shutting down. He needs this to be over. Now.

"I did it too, after I started hearing voices."

The sound of her voice is tinny, as if she's far away. Or he is.

"I thought it would help, and I felt like it did. For a while. But then everything got worse."

He's not going to do this. He's not listening to this. Being a serial killer is not the same thing as being schizophrenic. Or whatever she is. Sam's eyes flick to Dean and he's still fucking around with Andy. Why did Dean leave him here with her?

The muscles in Sam's legs tense and he can almost feel himself jumping up and over the bench and _away_. Away from Izzy and the way this conversation is making him feel. He's about to slide away from her when her hand clamps down on his wrist, just below the bandage. Her voice is insistent, harsh, and it needles through his personal fog. "I'm not talking for my health, I'm talking for _yours_. If you cut too deep you're going to die and what do you think that's going to do to Dean? If you give a flying fuck about your brother you'll let him in. You don't have to talk to me. You don't have to talk to Andy. But you have to talk to Dean. And if you can't do that? Then keep your guilty-ass hands off my knife." She grips harder, pulls him closer. "Keep them off everybody's weapons."

Sam's throat works, but he can't do much more than choke on, "I—I wouldn't…"

"You would if you thought you wouldn't get caught. I know what it feels like, I know it's a release, an addiction, whatever. But I've been listening to Dean's lectures on how to treat you for weeks now."

Sam gapes, dumbfounded. "Lectures?"

She nods, tight-lipped. "I'm surprised he didn't make us take notes. We can't talk to you about this or that because it might set you off. Don't mention other Sixers because you might freak out, don't refer to when you were gone because that's when you were busy with your killing spree." Isobel pokes his thigh with her other hand. "I don't know Dean that well, but I know I like him. He thinks he's a hardass, which is just plain stupid, but whatever. He's not bad to look at, either. But what I _really_ like is that he never gave up on you. Never. He hauled his ass across the country for you, and the least you can do is be grateful about it. I'm sorry you're fucked up and broken, Sam. But you know what?" She leans in even closer, eyes dark. "We're all fucked up now. We're _all_ broken. And maybe you're a little more broken than the rest of us. But I know you've got the brains to see that Dean would absolutely shatter without you. I can put aside everything you've done with a little time. I can even forgive you. But I won't forgive you if you kill yourself when Dean needs you." She lets go of his wrist, takes a deep breath. "We _all_ need you." Her eyes pin him to the table for a long moment. "Do you understand?"

Sam bites at his lower lip and nods. He does understand. Dean has done everything to save him, and even if he can't be saved (_too late now_) he can play along. He's done it before. He can carry the weight of his guilt for Dean, even if he has to get down on his hands and knees and crawl, he will. Because he's not so far gone that he doesn't remember what he owes Dean (_everything_).

Sam lets a little of the blankness slip, and tries to curve his mouth into a smile. He would give anything to go back in time and hunt without complaining. He would be a boy that hated soccer and loved training and hunting and didn't care about college, and he would do everything differently, _everything_, if he could just undo what his life is, and what he's done to Dean. He flexes his fingers, looks at them. He would give up knowing Jess _and that hurts, that hurts _so_ much_, but he would if it meant he could have walked down a different road that day outside the Roadhouse.

Dean ambles over, grinning at something Andy's saying. Sam's mouth twitches into a real smile, because, even now, Dean has the ability to personify _safe_ and _home_. Not that there's much left of either, but it's enough to make Sam smile. Sam knows things will never be good or right again, but he'll try to pull his weight, because Dean needs him to. No more running away, no more cutting. Izzy's right. He owes Dean for things he can never repay, doesn't know _how _to repay. But he starts with a smile that almost reaches his eyes, and nods toward the road. "You ready to go?"

Dean regards him carefully, then slowly returns the smile, hands in his pockets. "If you're done with your girl talk."

Sam rolls his eyes toward Izzy. "We were just waiting for the two of you to finish recess."

Dean accidentally on-purpose bumps into Sam's shoulder. "Come on then."

Sam bumps back. "You might want to go on ahead."

Dean blinks at him, lifts an eyebrow. "Huh?"

Sam smirks. "You know, with those short little legs of yours, I figured you should get a head start. I can take a quick nap and catch up later."

Dean tries to look pissed, but a smile keeps peeking out from behind his glare. "Very funny, sasquatch. Let's go."

"I seem to remember calling you bossy, once. Looks like times haven't changed much."

"I have to be in charge," Dean grumps. "If you were in charge we'd never get anywhere. We'd just sit around and talk about our feelings and cry all day."

Sam casts Dean a hard look.

Dean pushes his lips out. "Aw, Sam. I didn't mean—"

"We wouldn't cry _all_ day." Sam says it in a pinched voice to make Dean laugh. He doesn't mind. Joking with Dean will make him happy, and that's what matters.

Dean stares at him a minute and then laughs. It's a good sound, rich and deep, and Sam want to fold it up and put it in his pocket, so he can remember it later.


	4. Chapter 4

_Hey you, standing in the road  
always doing what you're told,  
Can you help me?  
Hey you, out there beyond the wall,  
Breaking bottles in the hall,  
Can you help me?  
Hey you, don't tell me there's no hope at all  
Together we stand, divided we fall._

_-- Pink Floyd_

Chapter 4

_Then._

They're sitting on the front steps of the Chicago Art Institute. The bronze lions flanking the entrance are gone, torn from their bases and sent through the plate glass windows of the shops across the street. Sam sits patiently with Jason and April, waiting for the Yellow-Eyed Demon. The Commander. Sam cleans his gun while he waits -- he likes to keep his hands busy. Jason smokes a cigarette. April plays with the leather bracelet around her wrist.

Chicago is quiet today. The cacophony of the previous few days—endless screams, gun shots, car alarms, shattering glass, explosions, squealing tires—has faded. There aren't many survivors left, Sam doesn't care about the ones skulking in churches and basements. A vision brought him here a week ago. The hunters he came to kill are dead now, his job done. It's time to move on.

The sound of approaching footsteps makes all three heads turn. A teenage boy walks toward them, a long leather coat flapping out behind him. He smiles at them, nods. "How are my favorite kids?" he asks, with something that sounds like affection. Yellow eyes flicker from the young face. Sam barely even registers the body the demon wears; it's just a disguise, it doesn't mean anything. Power radiates from it, and Sam returns the smile.

The demon settles himself on the step next to Sam. "You did good," he says. He gestures toward a stalled taxi. A woman lies on the sidewalk, her face turned away, one arm outstretched. It looks as if she's napping right on the pavement, as if waiting for a taxi took too damn long. The pooled blood haloed around her head tells a different story.

"You're one of my favorites, Sammy," the Commander says. His amber eyes shift to Jason and April. "You all are. And you made Chicago into a nice little wasteland, just for me." He lifts an eyebrow. "You'll be rewarded, you know. This is our world now. And most humans don't get that," the demon muses. "They keep looking for some reason we're here. Something complicated and grand, when really, it's just our turn. You had the earth for a good fucking while. Now it's our turn to walk in the sun, and you can burn in hell." The teenager's arm reaches out to pat Sam's knee. "No offense. I'm speaking in generalities. It's not like _you'll_ burn in hell. Not if you play your cards right."

Sam finishes reassembling the gun, stuffs the old rag back into his pocket. "I've always been pretty good at poker," he says.

The demon nods, appraising Sam's face. "I don't doubt that for a minute. "

ooooo

_Now. _

Sam mutters in his sleep, restless. His dreams are full of blood and smoke. He walks down a narrow alley, the brick walls on either side of him warped and crumbling. His hand trails along one wall, as if reading Braille. He can feel the baleful glare of a thousand eyes heavy on his shoulders. He glimpses pale irises pressed against narrow gaps between bricks, watching.

Accusing.

The air is thick with the smell of smoke, his throat is sore and his eyes water. At the end of the alley is a stained porcelain sink. An antique mirror hangs above it, fine cracks webbing the spotted surface.Sam looks at his broken face, and his reflection looks back, both eyes intact and watchful. Sudden words smear across glass, red letters spilling toward the sink: _Truth_. He can see now that there's something written on his forehead, and he leans closer to the mirror, studying the black lines. He focuses on the block letters tattooed across his skin, reads them backwards. _Lies.  
_  
Sam turns a rusty spigot and brown water spurts out of the tap. It clears after a moment, and Sam puts his hands beneath the water. No matter how much he scrubs, the blood won't come off; his skin is stained red.

A tall bird materializes from the smoke and walks toward him. It has a long scissoring beak and bright yellow eyes, and Sam thinks it might be a heron. "You can't stop us," the bird says casually. "Our numbers are many. Yours are few."

_It doesn't matter_, Sam thinks at the bird, still scrubbing his hands.

"I know what you dream," the bird says. "You think you can stop what's going to happen in New Mexico?" The beak snaps shut and Sam swears it's _smiling_. "You won't. You're not going to find truth. You're going to find the consequences of your actions. Of your sins."

_You're wrong._

"Am I?" the bird tilts his head toward the mirror. Sam's attention shifts back to it just as it shatters. Silver shards fly at him, and he feels several pieces lodge in his face, his head. He feels no pain.

"You should be dead, you know." The bird opens its mouth and something drops onto the ground at Sam's feet. "He shot you. He wanted you to die." The bird's voice is thin and sharp. It hurts in a way the glass can't. "Dean lies awake at night, wishing you were gone, forever and ever, amen."

_Get out of here._

The bird watches Sam for a long moment with its topaz eyes. "You can't wash away the things you've done," it says and twitches away on stiff legs. Its head turns back, one eye glittering. "I think you dropped something." It takes another step before it folds itself into the shadow of a nearby wall.

Sam pulls a long sliver of glass out of his face, lets it fall to the ground. There, beside the bloody glass is a marble. He bends down. Not a marble, after all, an eye. _His eye_.

Watching.

ooooo

Sam jerks awake, disoriented. He's on the ground. He brings bound hands to his face and remembers the pain and loss, rubs a thumb across the worn cloth of the eye patch and lets out a thin breath.

He knows Dean didn't want to kill him, no matter what his subconscious says. On the other hand, he can't really argue the fact that he should be dead. Deserves to be dead. He turns his head and sees the others still asleep, safe within the salt circle. Morning's pale fingers push the remains of night away. A few scattered birds fly overhead, silent.

_You think you can stop what's going to happen in New Mexico? You won't. _

Sam rolls over and pushes himself up. He kneels next to Dean, touches his shoulder gently. "Dean."

Dean's eyes blink open. In another life he would have rolled away, asked for five more minutes. Demanded coffee. Now he's awake in an instant, ready. "What is it?"

"We need to get going."

Dean looks past Sam to Izzy's sleeping form. "Did she--?"

Sam shakes his head. "No. I had a dream." At Dean's look he quickly adds, "Not a vision. Just a…a dream. But it makes me want to get going. I know the demon is heading to New Mexico and I want to get there first."

Dean starts rolling up his sleeping bag. He doesn't even question Sam. His mouth says, "Okay. I'm gonna take a leak and then we'll wake the others. Okay?" His eyes say, _we'll get there. It'll be okay._

Sam doesn't think anything will be okay ever again, but he nods. He's lost now, without hope or destiny, and trusting Dean is all he has left. It's the one thing he still knows how to do.

ooooo

It's been close to an hour since anyone spoke. They pick their way down the highway, careful and quiet. Interstate 44 bisects what remains of the downtown area, and Andy wonders what Oklahoma City would look like from an aerial view. He imagines the grid of empty streets as broken stitches, the people bled away. He can see the remains of the National Cowboy Hall of Fame and Western Heritage Center off to the right. To the left is the ruined university. They move past the broken shells of hotels, motels, stores and apartment buildings. A starving cat, ribs pushing through matted fur, watches them warily from the hood of a car.

Isobel gave the alert a while ago: _demons nearby_. In Midwest City to the southwest, and maybe Del City which is even closer. They can see a thick pillar of smoke behind them, like an ashen obelisk holding up the sky. Andy reads the graffitied signs and looks at the rolling waves of smoke, guesses the air force base is on fire.

At times like this, when it's quiet and his nerves are shot, Andy thinks of Tracy. She could always make him feel better. She had an inherent gentleness, a softness about her that he loved. Still loves, really -- he never stopped loving her. Even now, he can remember the feel of her arms around him after Doc died. (_Anson killed him._) He can also remember the look in her eyes after she realized what he could do. That one look makes him feel like shit. Dirty. Like a freak. He can't even begin to understand what Sam feels like.

Izzy's up ahead, fist pressed to her mouth. She's crying to herself, something about what the demons are up to. Andy doesn't want to know. Dean's in the lead—as usual—and he looks pissed -- he's looked that way ever since Izzy sounded the alarm. Oklahoma City was supposed to be a chance to stock up on salt and food and supplies; instead it's just another trap to avoid. Andy rubs his neck, tries to work out a little of the tension. It feels like there's a metal rod rammed right up his back and into his skull.

Sam's next to him, shuffling like a zombie. He was silent even before Izzy said anything. He seemed to have two modes now: silent or freaked the fuck out. Andy wishes he knew how to help, because he likes Sam, despite the things he's done. Sam took away the nightmares, and for that he'll always be grateful. _Always._

They keep walking, lips compressed into lines, eyes turned inwards. Andy rubs his neck again and thinks, _we're all just fucking zombies now_.

ooooo

By the time noon has come and gone they're on the far side of the city. Izzy's a little calmer now, and they risk stopping a few minutes to rest and eat. She keeps muttering under her breath to Claudia and blinking, like she can't quite see. "Fucking demons," she mutters. "Ugly fuckers."

Dean raises his water bottle. "I'll drink to that." He chokes down a mouthful of warm water, makes a face, and puts the bottle back in his pack. "So we're safe now?"

Izzy regards him with a baleful look.

Dean rolls his eyes. "You know what I mean."

Izzy sighs. "It seems quiet now. Nothing up ahead or directly on either side." She uses the hem of her shirt to wipe her nose. "Do you like poetry?"

Dean chews on a piece of licorice. It tastes like plastic. _Old_ plastic. He shakes his head. "I'm more of a limerick guy," he admits. "Why? You wanna give a poetry reading?"

"I've got a poem stuck in my head," she mumbles and turns away. Her blond hair is lank and greasy.

"We should go," Sam says. The granola bar Dean gave him is still in his lap, unopened.

"Dude, you didn't eat," Dean says, eyes dark. "You're no good to us if you collapse on the way."

Sam tosses the granola bar back to Dean. "I'm not hungry. I'll eat later."

"What's the rush?" Andy wonders. "I thought we were making okay time."

Sam clasps his hands together. His wrists are raw and scabbed from the constant rubbing of the rope. He doesn't seem to notice. "I think it's important that we get there as soon as possible," he says carefully.

Dean stares at Sam's granola bar, debates whether to save it or eat it himself. He shrugs and unwraps it. He might as well eat it. If Sam tips over he'll need the strength to haul his ass along.

"We don't even know what's there," Andy says. "For all you know, we're walking into a trap." Andy stands, brushes crumbs from his face, his shirt. "I mean, we've all got this idea that there's something actually waiting for us in New Mexico. That there will be people in Truth or Consequences. But we don't _know._"

Dean lifts an eyebrow. "You got someplace else you need to be, Andrew?" He emphasizes Andy's full name.

Sam looks at Andy. "_I_ know," he says softly. "There _are_ people there. Humans."

Andy looks skeptical. "How do you know? Because of some graffiti?"

Sam shakes his head, closes his eyes. Dean watches him carefully. He gets to his feet and moves closer to Sam.

Sam's eyes flick back open. "I had a vision."

ooooo

_Then._

Sam moves through the house slowly. He can feel Dean approaching, and he's excited. He ends up in the kitchen and studies the colorful drawing stuck to the refrigerator. It's a crayoned square of a house and stick figures; childish script reads "my home." The picture jogs something in a far recess of Sam's memory, but not enough to push anything loose. He pushes the mental itch away, and continues his circuit of the kitchen.

Sam's going to repay Dean for all the years he took care of him. A chair slides back from the kitchen table and he sits. He'll try to reason with Dean, try to bring him over to their (_winning_) side. The Commander's side. But if he can't…then he'll kill him. He'll do it fast, so Dean doesn't suffer. He won't even know what happened. That's how Sam wants it, because he does love Dean, and he won't let the Commander or the other demons or his fellow Sixers touch him. Dean is _his_. Once, a long time ago, he was Dean's.

He sits at the kitchen table and waits, whistling a little. Some old Metallica song, and that makes him smile. How very _Dean _of him. That's when the vision hits.

The kitchen breaks into pieces of broken glass that reassemble into a different reality. There's no pain during visions now, just a hum in his head, a sense of energy and being _connected_. Two men stand outside a large block building. One holds a rifle. The other drops a rosary into a pail of water, speaking Latin. There are fragments of other people, a praying woman, a laughing child. A woman scavenges among the toppled shelves of a small market for salt and herbs. The image flickers then refocuses on the sign above the window: _Truth or Consequences Co-op_.

The vision ends. Sam blinks a few times, memorizing details. There are humans in Truth or Consequences, New Mexico. And some of them—maybe all of them—are hunters. He nods to himself. The hunters won't last long -- he'll kill them all with a song in his heart and a spring in his step. A noise on the front porch breaks into his thoughts, and he stands, calm and ready. Finding the hunters will come later. After Dean.

The screen door creaks. A familiar voice calls out, "Sam?"

ooooo

_Now._

Sam just stands there, head down, and something inside Dean breaks a little to see Sam like that. He steps next to him so they brush shoulders, just to let Sam know _I'm here._ Sam tips his head toward Dean, but keeps his face down, the brim of the baseball cap shielding his face. _I know_.

Andy and Izzy are both on their feet now, staring at Sam. Andy's voice is hoarse when he speaks. "Do you think the hunters are still there?"

Sam shrugs. "I think so. It feels like they are. And if we can get there, then maybe I can help. Maybe I can stop the…" he trails off.

"Stop what?" Izzy wants to know.

Sam shuffles his feet and hunches his shoulders.

Andy pulls at his lower lip, thinking. "You think other Sixers are on their way there?"

Sam lifts his head slightly and shrugs. "Maybe."

Andy shifts his attention to Dean. "Did you know about this?"

Dean bends to pick up his pack. "Some of it." He mind shifts back to the conversation he had with Sam weeks ago. _You need to tell me what The Demon is planning. And is there a chance we can stop him?_

He has no idea if anyone is still alive in Truth or Consequences or not. But he's hoping. And that, in itself, is _something_.

ooooo

"I've gotta pee."

They're near Weatherford and Dean doesn't really want to stop. But he wants to listen to Izzy bitch him out to her invisible friends even less, so he slows his pace and sighs. "Hurry up then."

Izzy rolls her eyes. "I will, _dad_," she snarks, and heads toward a towering billboard a few hundred feet away. The sign is faded and ripped, but the advertisement for Verizon Wireless is still visible. Dean scowls at the billboard and sinks onto the dusty asphalt. Andy takes a drink of water. Sam scratches obsessively at the bandage on his arm. Dean stretches out a leg and knocks Sam's foot, and Sam turns to him, the _what?_ plain on his face.

Dean gives his head a little shake. "Don't do that."

Sam sighs loudly and lets his arms drop. "If you don't want me to itch then tie me back up." He sounds a little pissy, and frankly, Dean's glad. He'll take a whiny Sam over a silent (_suicidal_) one any day. Which is a real kick in the ass, because once upon a time Dean would have paid good money to get this kind of quality silence from Sam. But not anymore, because when Sam is silent it means he's _remembering_, and Dean really doesn't want him doing that.

Dean rests both palms on the ground behind him and stretches, rolls his shoulders. "Sammy, if I didn't know better, I'd think you're getting a little kinky in your old age." He ignores Sam's glower and winks. "From now on, if you wanna get tied up, you're gonna have to find a four poster bed and a nasty girl to do it for you, cuz I'm done. We're getting closer to New Mexico, and I want you to be hands free." He meets Sam's gaze and the message is loud and clear: _If we run into something big and bad you're not gonna be much help with your hands tied, are you?_

Sam nods reluctantly. _Okay_. His arms are folded across his chest and his fingers tap out a frantic Morse code of distress along the sleeves of his shirt.

"Hey!" The sound of a man's voice brings Dean to his feet, and he and Sam instinctively position themselves side by side in front of Andy. There's a man with a little boy running up the North Eastern Avenue on-ramp. He waves one arm wildly and shouts "Christo!"

Dean pulls out his gun, waiting. "Christo," he calls back. His voice is amiable enough, but his body is wired with tension.

The man slows to a fast walk, and now Dean can see he's limping. The tousle-haired boy he's pulling in his wake stumbles to keep up. The man reminds Dean of someone, but he can't quite place who. The man pulls at the left sleeve of his shirt and Dean's grip tightens on his gun. He said _Christo_, so it's unlikely he's a demon, but he could be a Sixer. Or a fucked-up human.

"I'm not a demon," the man says, and raises the inside of his bare arm to Dean. There, stippled across dark skin, is a carefully tattooed Seal of Solomon. Above it is a thin cross, below it is a slightly lopsided shield knot. "The seal came out best," he says. He looks tired and sounds out of breath.

Dean points his weapon at the ground. "You did these?"

"Yeah. I figure sooner or later we'll be coming across demons who can say _Christo_ without flinching. But are they going to tattoo a protection symbol on their, uh, host's skin? I've heard cases where they'll mark the skin to keep them _in_, but not to keep them _out_."

Dean casts a sideways look at Sam, but neither man speaks. Andy eyes the boy. "What about him?"

The man shakes his head. "He's with me. He doesn't speak. But he's not a demon." The man wipes his hand on the front of his shirt, offers it to Dean. "My name's Craig, by the way. Craig Thomson."

Dean stares at Craig's hand, but he doesn't take it. After a long awkward moment, Craig lets it drop. Dean casts a quick glance over his shoulder for Izzy, and turns back to Craig and the boy. He hates to ask, but he has to. "How do you know the kid's not a demon?"

Craig lifts an eyebrow, and Dean realizes the dude sort of looks like the black guy from _the Shawshank Redemption_. The actor with the girl's name. "Well, the fact that I'm still alive is a good indication."

Dean frowns. He glances at Sam, but Sam seems to have checked out. He's staring at the ground, his eye unfocused. Andy meets Dean's gaze. "We could have him write it," he suggests weakly.

Dean rolls his eyes and looks hard at the kid. He looks ten, maybe eleven, with light brown hair, brilliant blue eyes and a smattering of freckles across his nose. The eyes refuse to look at him, and Dean wonders if the kid and Sam are looking at the same nothing.

"Is he, uh, your kid?" Dean asks.

Craig shakes his head. "I found him in Nebraska. He was trapped in a car with his mother." He pauses. "She's dead."

Dean bends down on one knee. "Dude, can you say _Christo_?" he asks. The boy says nothing. Dean tries again. "What's your name?" Dean glances up at Craig. "Do you know?"

Craig sighs. "I don't. And I don't know if he does either. He's never said a word to me."

"Maybe he can't talk." Andy snaps his fingers. "He's, you know…what do they call it? Mute."

Craig puts a protective hand on the boy's shoulder. "I don't think he's mute. And he's certainly not deaf."

"Do you have any paper?" Dean asks Craig. On Craig's look he eyes Andy. "Do you?"

Izzy arrives finally, eyeing the newcomers with a mixture of curiosity and caution. "They're not demons," she says.

Dean exhales in relief. "Good." He manages a grin that's more or less real. This time he offers Craig his hand. Craig smiles back and they shake.

ooooo

"Do you mind if we walk with you for a while?" Craig asks. "It's nice to have someone to talk to." He pats the boy's arm and gives the top of head a fond smile. "No offense."

"Where are you headed?" Izzy wants to know.

"New Mexico," Craig replies. "This is going to sound weird, but—"

Dean interrupts him. "Dude. Look around. What could _possibly_ sound weird now?"

Craig smiles. "You have a point, friend. I saw a message spray-painted across the highway back in Indiana. Some sort of _you're not alone if you go to Truth or Consequences, New Mexico_, deal. I've been making my way there at a snail's pace ever since."

"Do you always trust random graffiti to tell you where to go?" Dean asks.

Craig shrugs. "It's not like I have anywhere else to be. I won't be grading papers for a long while, I'm afraid."

Andy takes a drink from his water bottle, offers it to Craig. "You're a teacher?"

"I was. Professor of Theology at Valparaíso University."

Dean nods. "Ah. That explains how you knew the kind of symbols to tattoo on your arm."

Craig takes a drink and hands the bottle back to Andy. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Exactly. My dad always used to bitch about my studying theology. He said it was a bunch of bedtime stories and myths." Craig squints into the horizon. "Doesn't seem much like bedtime stories anymore."

ooooo

Sam's trying hard to keep it together. He's gone back to counting his steps, because that at least keeps his mind off the whispers. Sam's silent, but nothing else is – everything calls to him now, pulls at him. The professor and the kid don't affect him much. Dean's been talking to Craig for hours now, about the tattoos, types of apotrope, protective sigils, exorcism rituals. All Sam can hear is the glint of Izzy's knife, the weight of Dean's gun. Every chunk of concrete tossed alongside the road, every overpass is a promise. Pain is everywhere, ready and waiting, and he can't believe he never noticed it before.

He blinks the sweat out of his eyes and concentrates on walking. Three hundred seventy-five, three hundred seventy-six, three hundred seventy-seven. He could get Izzy's knife before anyone knows what's happening and shove it into his skull. His arm. His chest.

Sam grits his teeth and keeps walking for Dean. Dean is his anchor, holding him steady (_holding him down, keeping him here_). Without Dean he'd be lost (_could finally let go_). Sam bites at a fingernail (he needs to do something with his hands, they're always _there_) and tries to think. He needs to try harder, be better. He promised he wouldn't hurt himself and he won't. Dean wants him to be okay, they all want him to be okay. Dean deserves to have Sam be (_act_) okay. And Sam's feet keep moving as he counts: three hundred seventy-eight, three hundred seventy-nine, three hundred eighty.

Most of the time, he feels brittle and empty, as if he's made of broken glass and everything fits together wrong. It's like his skin—his body—is made of a thousand birds straining to fly in opposite directions. If he can just figure out how to let go, he'll be free. He can just fly away.

He's on step three hundred ninety-five when there's a hand on his arm. He stops walking and waits; Dean will tell him what to do. "Earth to Sam," Dean says, and Sam smiles because that's what Dean wants.

Sam pulls the baseball cap off and runs a hand through matted hair. "Are we stopping?"

"Everybody's tired. I think we'll have dinner and hit the hay early." Dean grins. "Guess what the professor's got."

Sam opens his mouth, tries hard to formulate a response. As usual, Dean saves him. "Salt. The bastard has salt, can you believe it? He read in some old textbook that salt wards off demons and spirits. Looks like we just might live through another night, Sammy."

Sam smiles and it feels _wrong_, but Dean doesn't freak out, so he must look passable. "That's great."

Dinner is three cans of pork and beans; they pass the warmed cans around and eat with their fingers. Sam doesn't want to eat, but Dean glares until he gives in. He can feel Craig watching him as well. Part of Sam's mind wonders if Craig knows him—knows _about_ him—but Craig just smiles and Sam lets the thought go. Dessert is a few bruised apples and the last of the licorice. The boy sits between Dean and Craig during the meal. He still doesn't speak, but he has a decent appetite.

By the time the fire dies down, Andy has finished pouring the salt circle around their camp. The boy is staring into a few smoldering embers when Dean speaks. "You know something? I knew another kid who didn't like to talk. This was a few years ago, now. His name was Lucas. He was a good kid," Dean says quietly. "He was just having some weird shi—ah, crap going on around him." Dean clears his throat. Sam listens. For some reason, the sound of Dean's voice in the firelight, in the hush of twilight, makes everything almost bearable. "Now, I don't know you that well yet, but I can tell from looking at you that you're a good kid. Since I don't know your name, is it okay if I call you Luke?"

The boy looks at Dean intently, but that's all.

"Also, there's a pretty cool movie about a guy named Luke and his _super_ cool friend Han…" Dean trails off. "You probably don't care much about old movies right now though…what with everything that's happened to you." Dean sighs, picks at a fraying lace on his boot. "If you don't want me to call you Luke, I won't. But it'd be nice to call you something besides _dude_ all the time." Dean elbows Sam. "That's already what I call my goofy brother, here."

Sam's throat closes up at this. Even now, Dean thinks of Sam _(murderer_) as his little brother. He tries to breathe and makes a sound like he's just been kicked in the throat. Dean turns to him, concern on his face. "You okay?"

_Fuck no, and I never will be again_. Sam just coughs. "Yeah." Dean looks a little uncertain, but the sound of the boy shifting on the ground pulls his attention from Sam.

The boy nods slowly and Dean grins. "Nice to meetcha, Luke."

ooooo

An anemic rain comes with the dawn. It's more mist than rain, really, but it's persistent, and by the time they're up and walking, everyone's soaked to the skin. The sky is leaden and the group's mood feels just as heavy. Izzy mutters every now and then to Claudia, but other than that, they squelch through puddles and Dean thinks he would gladly forfeit one of his kidneys for a cup of strong hot coffee.

Dean spots the bird from the corner of his eye. A big motherfucker of a thing, maybe a crane or heron, he's not sure. Sam stops dead and Dean almost runs into him. "Dude. Watch it." The bird cocks its head and peers in their direction before lifting off in a blur of wings. Dean's ready to move on, but Sam acts like the bird means something. "Sammy?"

Sam watches the bird until it's just grey on grey. He turns to Dean and blinks. Water droplets bead the brim of his cap. "What?"

Dean searches his brother's weary face for some kind of clue to what's really going on. There was time when he knew Sam's thoughts better than his own, but that time is gone. "It's just a bird, Sam. Not a ghost. Let's go."

Sam nods stiffly and starts walking again. Dean flicks the condensation from his face. "This weather sucks out loud."

"Hey, guys!" Izzy waves from up ahead. She's pointing to a green rectangular sign that reads _Elk City_.

Andy links arms with Izzy and they twirl each other in a circle, yahooing and high-fiving each other like fools. "Thank God for supplies!" Andy yells, grinning into the rain.

"I'd hold off on that thanks until we actually have something to be thankful for," Dean says, but he can't help feeling just a little excited. It feels like forever since they've had fresh water. They need more thread, needles, socks, food, bandages. His mind flicks back to the tattoo on the professor's arm. And maybe some ink.

ooooo

Elk City is quiet. Cars are still parked along streets, houses are still standing. Within a few minutes of walking past a Chili's, Perkins, and a Goodwill, it's obvious the Disease killed this city, not demons. They stay together, Craig's arm around Luke, as they wander past deserted buildings.

Dean keeps a sharp eye out for crazies, but there's nothing but the cold mist and the sound of their footsteps. Izzy cups her hands around her face and looks into the empty dining room of a restaurant. Each table is still set with menus and decorative candles. Sam nudges Dean's arm. "Look."

A grocery store looms beyond the restaurant. "Thank you Jesus," Izzy whispers, and starts running.

"Isobel," Dean hisses, using his best _don't fuck with me_ voice. "Get your ass back here. We stay _together_." He doesn't have to remind her about Patrick: the look in her eyes tells him she gets the message.

The gas station across from the grocery store is the first indication that something went wrong here. The gasoline pumps are all gone – all that's left are bits of twisted metal and scorched concrete. "What do you want to bet they're all like that?" Andy says.

"I'm not taking that bet." Dean's lips purse. "I think you're right." He shrugs. "But we can check later. Right now, let's hit the store." He looks at Craig. "You got a weapon, Professor?"

The professor pulls a claw hammer out of his jacket pocket. The hammer head looks heavy and slightly misshapen. The claw looks as if it's been recently sharpened.

Dean nods in approval. "Works for me."

The automatic doors open when they approach the grocery store entrance. Most of the lights are burnt out, but two or three of the fluorescents buzz and flicker toward the back of the store. They fan out carefully, Dean in the lead, Sam next, then Andy, Izzy, and Craig with Luke. They take turns rounding each end cap, making sure there's no one waiting in an aisle for them. The store is empty, but the outside looks infinitely better than the inside.

Rust-colored footprints trail up and down the aisles. Several cash registers are overturned and broken on the floor. Crumpled tens and twenties are glued to the tiles, mired in dried blood. Once they're sure they're alone, they travel the length of the grocery store in silence, weaving between toppled displays, overturned carts, and the occasional discarded shoe or sweatshirt. The entire meat and dairy sections have gone bad, and the smell is enough to keep them as far as possible from that end of the store. Black clouds of flies float above the coolers, and for one sickening second, before he hears the hum, Dean thinks, _demon_.

The whole place makes Dean's skin crawl, and he wants to get back to the open road _yesterday_. He gives them fifteen minutes to grab all the shit they can stuff into their assorted bags: salt, bottled water, crackers, power bars, chips--anything with a dubiously long shelf life. Dean finds M&Ms and tube socks by the check out; he's good to go. Izzy suggests staying there for the night, but Dean won't hear of it. Surprisingly, neither will Sam. Sam's got one arm wrapped around his stomach and he's wearing a glazed look which doesn't bode well for any of them.

Back out on the deserted street they make another quick stop at a Wal-Mart for bullets, Indian ink, flashlights, and a baseball bat for Luke. Craig won't let the boy have a gun or knife, but he agrees to the bat. Luke swings experimentally, then nods at Dean. Good enough. They all trade in their piece-of-shit shoes for new ones, except for Sam – the store doesn't carry his size. Dean wants to crack a joke, call him on his sasquatch-sized feet, but Sam's grey complexion stops him cold.

By the time they exit the store it's nearly dark. The good news is the rain has stopped; the bad news is the streets are no longer deserted. Figures roam aimlessly through yards and streets. Some watch the little group from front stoops and porches, some from dark windows. Dean puts a hand on Sam's arm. "Is this what you felt coming?"

Sam pinches the bridge of his nose. "I don't think so."

The professor hangs back, fear etched into every line on his face. "What…what's happening?"

Izzy's muttering furiously to herself. "—have killed you to say something before?" She scowls. "They're not demons. They're—"

"Ghosts," Sam finishes.

A pale sea of faces flickers all around them. Dean picks up whispers that sound more like static than words.

_please help me_

_couldn't stop myself_

_know what's happening to_

_the Disease and I couldn't_

Dean lifts his shotgun—freshly filled with rock salt—and braces himself. "Get behind me," he orders, voice low. He can hear Andy shift behind him as he pulls out his own gun.

Sam ignores the order and walks right past him. The unsteady ocean parts for him, pale hands reaching toward his face, his arms, his chest.

Dean stares open-mouthed at the sight of his brother wandering through a crowd of fucking caspers, and then panic ratchets through him, jumpstarting his vocal cords. "Sam," he grits, "what the hell are you doing? Those things could—"

"They're just lost," Sam says quietly. "They're trapped here."

"Can we help them?" Izzy asks, a little too eager. "Is this the salt and burn part?"

"The salt and burn part needs bodies, Iz. Do you see any?"

"Most of the bodies are gone," Sam continues. "But they're stuck here. Left behind."

"Well, I'm real sorry about that, but we've gotta go." Dean grimaces as he tentatively steps around and i through /i the figures flanking Sam.

"Jesus Christ, Sam, what are you _doing_? They could kill you—us—in a matter of seconds. And you just go marching along like it's a freakin _parade_?"

"They won't hurt us," Sam says.

Dean is skeptical. Izzy seems more excited than scared. He wonders if it's because she's been able to hear their voices all along, if maybe this is what she sees every day. Dean shivers. _No thanks. _He stalks after Sam. "So what's the plan, Haley Joel, you think we're going to waste the next six months putting these poor bastards to rest?" He hesitates and casts an awkward glance at the nearby figures. A few of them flicker on and off like a bad light bulb. He can feel their eyes on him, but they let him pass. The ghosts let all of them pass.

Craig and Andy make their way down the street, mouths agape, eyes wide. The only one who seems as unaffected as Sam is Luke. They boy just swings his baseball bat at his side like a pendulum. When they reach the end of the road and turn back toward the highway, Dean risks a look over his shoulder.

The street is empty. There's nothing but a thin snake of steam coming off the sidewalks, a few puddles, and crushing silence. Dean stops dead. "What the fuck was _that_?" His hand reaches out and catches Sam's shoulder. "Sam. Seriously. Did you know they were just going to let us go--that they were just gonna disappear?"

Sam's good eye looks away. Dean can't read his expression in the dying light, but the stoop of his shoulders reveals Sam's mood louder than words. "I don't know anything, Dean. Just that they wanted my help. They wanted my help and I couldn't give it to them." His voice is thick with regret.

Dean stares at Sam. "Dude, they're just ghosts. If they're not trying to kill me, I don't much care. We've released a thousand of them over the years." He frowns. "What I don't get, is why there were so excited to see _you_."

Sam's eye finally slides to Dean's face. "Don't you get it?" he whispers, and there's an emotion there Dean can't quite _(doesn't want to_) put his finger on.

"Get what?"

Sam takes a step closer. He's doing the _I'm looming_ thing. "That I'm one of them."

Dean hides his shock behind annoyance. He sighs heavily, blowing his lips out, but his hand stays on Sam's shoulder. "You're…a ghost," he says slowly. He wags an eyebrow. "That's what you're telling me?"

Sam shrugs Dean's hand off. "All I know is that I feel dead most of the time." Sam glares and there's a thin wire of rage running through his words. "The only difference between me and them is you can still see me."

"Is that the only difference?" Dean demands. "I'm pretty sure I can whack you upside the head, too," he says, glaring. He demonstrates with a flick of his wrist. Sam doesn't even flinch.

They stare at each other.

Andy guides the rest of the group back toward the highway. Dean watches their progress from the corner of his eye. "Dude," he focuses his full attention back on Sam. "You have _got_ to quit being so melodramatic. You are more of a girl than most of the women I've slept with."

Sam's nostrils flare and his eye narrows.

Part of Dean is pissed at Sam's behavior, the other part is doing fucking _cartwheels_ that Sam's actually feeling something, anything, besides guilt.

"I don't know what I'm doing," Sam says finally. "I feel like there's all this pressure that everyone wants me to be okay, to be normal—" he chokes out a bark of laughter, "—like I can be that, when all I feel is like I'm this fucking shell masquerading as a person. And you're all gonna get tired of waiting for me to be okay." He swallows hard and wraps his arms around himself. "But I promise I'm trying, Dean. I'm trying so hard. Every day it feels like I'm dying, but I'm trying for you, Dean. I know you want me to live, so I am. I'm not hurting myself. I'm…just…I can't. I don't. Uhh." Sam turns his back to Dean, his body bent so tightly in on itself it looks like he's going to snap in half.

Dean moves in front of Sam, puts a hand on each side of Sam's head and pulls him upright. Sam's forehead leans against Dean's. "I'm trying, Dean. I owe you that. I owe you so much."

Dean's stomach clenches at the grief in Sam's voice, but he's trying too. As much as Sam's trying not to run screaming off an overpass, Dean's trying to play it cool. He's trying not to think about Dana's face. He's trying not to think about Sam digging around in his arm with a big-ass knife like he's looking for lost treasure. He's trying not to think about the sound of Sam's screams after he (_he_ shot _Sam_, he _shot_ _Sam_) shot Sam. He's trying not to keep Sam tethered to him at all times, although, to tell the truth, that's pretty much what he wants after everything that's happened. He's trying to pretend he's okay with the huge amount of fucked up Sam is; with the silence, the crying, the way he doesn't want to eat and barely sleeps.

Dean lets out a pent-up breath. "I know you're trying," he says softly. "I know you are and I'm glad, Sam. I'm thankful. But I'm trying too, here. Not just to take care of you, to keep you safe—" Sam makes a noise at this, but Dean barrels on, "—but to get everybody to New Mexico in one piece. I'm doing kind of a piss-poor job, Sam, and I know you don't want to hear this, but I could use your help. Just a little."

Sam nods, his head bumping lightly against Dean's. "I know. I can do it. I can help. I'd do anything for you." The last few words sound a little wet and crumpled, like old tissues in a pocket. Dean keeps his eyes closed, because he knows Sam's good eye is leaking like an old roof, and _I'd do anything for you_ is just _begging_ for a wise-ass retort, but he doesn't say a word. Because he and Sam are actually talking, no, _communicating_ is the word Sam (_the old Sam_) would use. And Dean can't help thinking _fuck me twice_ and feel more than a little wonderment at the fact you can't get more touchy-feely than this shit, and he's _glad_.

And that's when Sam pulls away and clamps his fingers back to the bridge of his nose.

"What's wrong? More ghosts?" Dean asks, his hands dropping loosely to Sam's neck.

Sam shakes his head, his voice stretched rubber band tight. "We saw the ghosts because there's a…there's, um, a disturbance…"

Dean snorts and this time he can't resist. "In what? The force?"

Sam's forehead crinkles and he takes a few steps toward a side street, away from the highway. "I don't know how to describe it. It, uh, just feels wrong. There's something…I can just. I can sense. Um. Ahh."

And that's when they hear the screaming. It starts thin and frail and grows into a piercing shriek. Dean can hear a worried babble of voices coming from his friends but his brain doesn't register what they're saying. His brain is too busy registering that Sam's running _toward_ the screams. And like always, Dean follows.

ooooo

The girl is crouched in the center of a blacktop parking lot. A puddle near her foot shines like a mirror. She's trapped in the center of a whirling maelstrom of leaves, newspaper, food wrappers. Her hands are pressed to either side of her head and her screams feel _(sound_) like glass in Sam's head.

The energy crackles around her like a corona. The rushing wind blows the cap off Sam's head, musses his hair. A broken cassette tape veers off its trajectory and slices the air above Dean's ear. Both Dean's gun and his gaze are trained on the girl; without turning his head he asks Sam, "Is she a demon?"

"_Christo_!" Sam shouts through the mad spiral around the girl.

"Fuck _Christo_," she shrieks. "Help me! I can't stop it! I don't know what to do!" She's on her hands and knees now, fingers splayed and pressed white against the ground.

Sam takes a deep breath. He concentrates, like he did with Andy. It's like adjusting a picture that's gone crooked, smoothing the wrinkles out of a quilt. He steps toward the girl, eyes closed, and walks into her tornado. A piece of newspaper is momentarily trapped against his chest, then resumes its orbit. He can hear Dean's panicked cry behind him, but he's safe enough. He's in the eye of the storm with the girl.

She's sobbing now. "I don't know what's happening!" An aluminum can flashes by like a shooting star. The energy around them makes the hair on Sam's arms, on the back of his neck, stand up.

He reaches for her hand, and her skin is slick with sweat. She's rank with fear. "It's okay," he says – and then it is. The feeling of wrongness is gone. The ache in his head shorts out. With their hands linked they've become a chain. He has no idea how he knows this, how he knows what to do, but he doesn't have time for his own terror because hers is overwhelming. "Like this," he grits out, and the whirlwind of detritus slows and slows, until the bits of paper and junk and cans hang in the air like the world's weirdest mobile. She blinks. Sam looks over the top of an old leather glove at Dean. Dean looks shocked, like Sam's just punched him. Or left him.

"What—" Dean begins, but the girl cuts him off.

"How did you do that?" she demands. Her voice wavers and so does the junk suspended around them.

"I…I don't know," Sam admits.

Her hand trembles in his. "You're a Sixer?"

"I. Um." He sighs. "Yes."

She tries to take a step back, but he's still holding her hand. He lets go. "I don't want to hurt you," he says. "I just want to help." And he does. He just wants to help (_to make up for_).

The bits of newspaper, the cans, glove, everything drops to the ground. One can bounces and rolls towards Dean's foot. "Why…why didn't you just kill me?" she asks, clearly surprised.

Suddenly Sam is exhausted. He can barely stand. "I don't want to kill you," he says and he feels nauseous. Does she know him? Does she recognize him?

"But you're a Sixer."

Andy's voice reaches them. "Not all Sixers work with the demons." He's next to Dean now. So are Izzy and Craig and Luke. Sam can't read Craig's face, but Luke looks torn between fear and awe, like maybe Sam just performed a fucking fantastic trick. Like he's part Penn and Teller and not just a freak.

The girl turns wet eyes back to Sam. "You saved me," she says. Her voice sounds the way Luke's face looks. "You _saved _me." She drops to her knees and clutches at Sam's hand.

Sam stumbles away from her grasp. He finds her gratitude far more disturbing than suspicion or animosity. "What? No. I just helped you figure out what to do. Don't…don't thank me."

She's not listening. "Thank you." She tries to grab for his leg (_his leg!_), but Sam jerks away, bile rising in his throat. He's no savior. He's a _monster_. What's wrong with her? Did he hurt her? Confuse her? He trips and falls backwards, landing hard on his ass and elbow. He grunts in pain.

Dean steps forward and slides his arms around the girl, yanks her bodily to her feet. "That's enough hero worship for now. Give him some room."

The girl's dark hair is pulled back into a messy braid, black tendrils framing the pale moon of her face. She stretches a hand out in front of her. "Am I a Sixer too?" She points to a crushed can and it lifts off the ground. She blinks and it's gone, a bit of silver flashing across the parking lot. Her whole face pulls downward in a silent O of fear. "No. It can't be." She looks from Sam to Andy and back to Sam. "I can't be."

"I'm sorry," Sam says. He doesn't know what else to say.

The girl turns on her heel and runs off into the night, torn skirt flying out behind her, dark braid swinging against her back.

"Sam…" Dean holds a hand out for his brother, helps him up. Sam doesn't look at Dean. He can hear the myriad of questions buried in the single syllable: _What the fuck was that? What did you do? Just how much should I be freaking out about this?_

Craig clears his throat, studies Dean. "So you have two Sixers traveling with you?"

Dean meets Craig's gaze, lifts his chin. "You got a problem with that?"

Craig chuckles softly. "You have got yourself some interesting travel companions, my friend," he says. "Something tells me this is going to be one hell of a trip."

Dean glances at Sam. "You don't know the half of it."


	5. Chapter 5

__

You ask me why I'm weary, why I can't speak to you  
You blame me for my silence  
Say it's time I changed and grew  
But the war's still going on dear  
And there's no end that I know  
And I cant say if we're ever...  
I can't say if we're ever gonna to be free.  
--Blue Oyster Cult

Chapter 5

"So you're telling me you actually used a Devil's Trap and it _worked_?" Craig is incredulous. "How did you even know how to draw one? I've only read about it in passing."

Dean shrugs. "A family friend gave us a copy of the _Key of Solomon_." He darts a quick look at Sam, then turns his gaze back to Craig. "We've used the Trap a couple of times, now."

Craig stops abruptly. "You're telling me you've seen an actual copy of the _Key of Solomon_?"

Dean's pretty sure the professor just wet himself. He rolls his eyes, then snags Sam's arm and pulls him into the conversation. "Sam's the geek. He's the one that memorized the whole thing."

"Do you still have it?" Craig asks. "I'd love to look at it—if that's okay," he adds quickly. "I've been making notes on various aspects of fighting demons and I'm hoping to get it published someday." He laughs softly. "And by _get it published_ I mean recopy my notes and pass them around the campfire."

"I vote yes for anything that helps teach people how to fight demons." Dean nods toward Sam. "Not everyone was raised like we were."

"You can say that again," Andy interjects. "It took me a long time to admit I wasn't fucking crazy." He grimaces at Luke. "Uh, sorry." Luke ignores him.

Dean grins. "Dude, just because you know how the world works doesn't mean you're not crazy. I've spent enough time with you know you're a few cards short of a deck."

Craig turns to Sam. "What about blue chalcedony? Do you find it has the same repellent properties as salt?"

Dean stares at Craig. "Repellent properties? What the hell kind of classes did you teach?"

Craig chuckles. "Let's just say the students liked me more than the faculty did."

Sam shakes his head. "Salt works better. Or I should say, works, period. Chalcedony makes a nice necklace, but that's about it. It's more of an old wives' tale." He regards Craig with curiosity. "What did you teach? You have a pretty good knowledge of folk magic, but I'm guessing you didn't teach the correlation between that and Christian symbology." He pauses. "Did you?"

Craig snorts. "Not exactly. I did let the kids do an extra credit paper every semester outlining the Christian symbology used in Stephen King's work. Eventually I had to leave _The Stand _off the list of permitted books because every kid and his brother picked it. But that was just extra credit stuff. My main classes were early Christian studies, exploration of Middle Eastern religions, and every once in a while I liked to throw in a class on various mythologies."

"That still doesn't explain how you know about salt or the _Key of Solomon_," Dean points out.

"Studying folk magic was a hobby of mine," Craig admits. His good humor fades. "I never knew I'd actually use any of it."

"Guys, wait up," Izzy calls, trailing after the group. "I don't…I don't feel so good." As if for emphasis, she sways on her feet.

Andy's instantly at her side. "What's wrong?"

She grimaces. "I don't know. I'm cold. Freezing. And my head hurts. I just want to lie down."

Within minutes, Dean steers them beneath an overpass. There's plenty of room for them to spread out their sleeping bags and light a fire.

Andy unrolls Izzy's bag and helps her sit. "I thought I was the one who was supposed to get sick," he says wryly.

"I told you you'd be okay," she says, rolling onto her side. She pillows her cheek on one hand.

Andy lowers himself next to her. "You did. And you were right."

Izzy closes her eyes, a line of pain creasing her forehead. Andy covers it with his hand, checking for a temperature. "You _must_ be sick. I just said you were right and you didn't even do a victory dance." He frowns. "You feel a little warm, but not too bad."

Dean walks over with a bottle of water. "I brought you some fresh water, Iz. You doing okay?" He raises an eyebrow at Andy. _How is she?_

Andy waggles a hand back and forth. _Not bad._

"I feel like crap," Izzy mutters.

"Walking around in the rain probably didn't help," Dean says. "Sorry about that."

"Go 'way."

Dean turns his laugh into a cough. "I'm going." He drifts off toward Sam, but hesitates long enough to direct a look back at Andy. _Stay with her._

ooooo

"So are you going to tell me what happened back there or do I have to drag it out of you?" Sam and Dean are cleaning weapons by the light of the fire. Correction: Dean is cleaning weapons, Sam's watching. Dean declared the guns and knives—and even Luke's bat—off limits.

Sam won't admit it aloud, but it's a wise decision on Dean's part. Sam keeps imagining himself grabbing a gun and putting it in his mouth. He can almost taste the acrid metal, feel the cool barrel (_do it_). It would take two seconds (_just do it_). Two seconds and then nothing. His tongue darts over cracked lips, sweat beading on his forehead.

"Well?" Dean prods, breaking Sam's concentration on the gun. Sam flinches. _Stop it. Think about Dean. Dean needs you. You owe him. You owe him your life_. It's all he has to give and it isn't worth much (now), but Sam will give it as willingly as he can. He avoids Dean's gaze and concentrates on the fire. "I don't know what happened," Sam says softly. He moves his hand closer to the fire. What would it feel like? (_Jess knows. And Mom_.) He swallows hard and pulls it back into his lap.

"First you pulled Yellow Eyes out of Andy's head," Dean says, his eyes burrowing into Sam, "and now you give some girl—a kid for Christ's sake—the Jean Grey treatment."

Sam manages a crooked smile. "Dude, that's two X-men references now. I never knew you were such a fan."

Dean just glares and Sam shifts uncomfortably. "I didn't have some big plan, Dean. I didn't even know what I was doing until I was next to her. And then…and then I touched her hand and I just knew what to do." He pulls the cap off his head and bends it back and forth. "I could _help_ her, Dean. That's all I wanted to do. That's all I _want_ to do. I want to help as many people as I can."

Dean watches him, a thin smile on his face. "Saving people, hunting things. Is that it?"

Sam's face shuts down. "No. I'm done hunting." His hands start to tremble and he grinds the palm of his hand into his good eye. "I can't. I. Dean. _No_." He has to make Dean understand that he can't kill any more. There are too many ghosts with him now. There's no room for more.

Dean has a hand on Sam's knee. "It's okay, Sam. Don't worry about it. I'll do the hunting, you do the saving, okay? We're still a team, just like always."

Sam nods woodenly. "Okay."

"I mean it Sam. You don't have to hunt ever again for all I care."

"Neither do you," Sam says, rubbing his jaw. He knows what happens to hunters (_I kill them_).

"I think we're a little busy to be hunting right now. That whole saving the world thing takes up a lot of time, you know?" Dean grins and Sam can't help smiling back.

"I wish I could have helped those ghosts in Elk City," Sam says. "They just wanted to go…to go home."

Dean sighs. "And I want chocolate air. But nobody's getting what they want right now, you know? You do the best you can and move on. Besides, you helped that girl."

Sam watches the flames jump and curl. "She was so young."

"I know. What do you think, fourteen? Fifteen?"

Sam shrugs. "I don't know." His mouth twists into a grimace. "Did you see the way she looked at me? Like I was…" He trails off. She looked at him like he was some kind of savior. The mere thought makes his stomach clench.

"She was just grateful. And maybe a little clingy."

Sam snorts. "That's one way to put it."

ooooo

Andy's pretty sure Izzy's sleeping when he brushes the hair off her forehead. "Are you trying to feel me up?" she asks, eyes still closed.

"You'd know it if I was," Andy grins. He moves her water bottle within reach. "How are you feeling?"

"Like my entire stomach is trying to crawl up my esophagus."

Andy winces. "Do you want me to see if I can scrounge up some medicine?"

"No." Izzy's voice is small. "Keep me company."

"Okay." Andy settles back onto his sleeping bag and folds his hands behind his head. Izzy falls silent again and Andy wonders if she's finally drifting off. Sleep is probably the best medicine she can get right about now.

"Andy?"

"Yeah?"

"Have you ever been in love?"

Surprised at the question, he lifts his head to see her expression, but her face is in shadows. He's not sure how to answer. Eventually, he settles on the truth. "Yeah. I think so."

"What was it like?" she asks, a little wistful.

"It was…it was good." He frowns. _Brilliant, Einstein_. "I mean…I loved her. Tracy. Her name was Tracy."

"Were you together a long time?"

_Not long enough_. "About a year."

"What happened?"

_I was an asshole. I didn't know what I had until it was too late. I fucked up the one good thing in my life. I was too busy playing mind games with my super magic powers_. "I…I took her for granted and we broke up." He heaves a heavy sigh. "And then my crazy twin brother tried to kill her using his…his ability."

Izzy's quiet so long Andy thinks she dozed off. Then her voice cuts through the stillness between them. "Oh _man_. The fucked up thing is, I have a feeling you're telling me the truth."

Andy musters a weary smile. "Yeah. That's the truth all right."

"You have a crazy twin?"

Now he's glad he can't see her face, because it means she can't see his. "Not anymore. He died."

"What happened?"

_I shot him. A little bit like how Dean shot Sam. See the pattern, there? Brother shooting brother? It's a fucking_ trend. "Izzy…I'm sorry. I don't really want to talk about it." The words feel too big for his throat.

Izzy doesn't push him. "That's okay." She wiggles in her sleeping bag, and now Andy can see her eyes on him. Her face looks drawn. "You can tell me some other time." She turns away from him briefly and hisses "shut up!"

Andy pushes himself up on one elbow. "What?"

"Claudia says you're kind of cute."

He gapes at her. "She…does?"

Izzy snorts. "No, doofus. I'm kidding." She watches him, her face shiny with sweat. She bites her lower lip and then says in a voice just shy of a whisper, "but I think you're okay."

Andy grins. "Well, if that's not a resounding endorsement, I don't know what is." He puts a hand to his temple. "I can feel my head inflating right now."

Izzy chuckles. There's movement beside her and they both turn to see Luke. He points to the ground next to Izzy and blinks at her.

Izzy pats the ground and smiles. "You can sit down sweetie, go ahead."

Andy smiles at Luke too, but the asshole part of him wants the kid to take a flying leap. But then he sees Luke reach for Izzy's hand and his annoyance dissolves. Luke's just a little kid, and as bad as things are for Andy, they've got to be worse for him.

Andy feels Izzy's hand on his own and he sort of wants to yell out to everyone else that Izzy's holding his hand, but he just grins instead, settles himself back down. Now it's the three of them, side by side. Luke offers Andy a shy smile and Andy smiles back. He feels like smiling forever. "Come on," Izzy says. "Tell us a bedtime story." She squeezes Andy's hand. "And it better be good."

ooooo

Craig is paging through the _Key of Solomon_. He treats each page as if it's made of glass. Dean and Sam are next to him, and they've spent the past half hour answering his questions. Now Dean elbows Sam gently and nods toward the big circle of salt. "Look at that. Luke just went to lie down by Izzy and Andy. They're all laid out like sardines in a can."

Craig looks up, nonplussed. "I thought Luke as already asleep." He glances from Luke's empty sleeping bag to the tousled head tucked between Izzy and Andy. The professor sighs. "I'm such a fool. Of course he wants to be by Izzy."

"He misses his mom," Dean says gently. He glances at Sam. They've spent a fair of amount of time identifying with older women over the years-- Missouri, Ellen-- but he doesn't want to think about them (_gone_) so he clears his throat. "What happened to Luke, anyway? How did you find him?"

Craig shuts the book carefully and hands it back to Sam. "I was still in Indiana when things started to…go bad. I packed up and caught a plane—one of the last ones—to Nebraska. My folks lived there." Craig's hand rubs along the side of his face. "When I got there they were gone. Everyone was gone." He shrugs. "No neighbors, no pets, no nothing. Just--gone."

"The Disease." Dean says softly.

Craig nods. "I think so. I didn't know what else to do, so I drove until the roads became impassible, then went on foot. By the time I got to Lincoln I'd run into some folks who said they were going to New Mexico. A few days later I saw a sign on the side of the road that said _Find hope in Truth or Consequences_. So I found me a map and kept walking." Craig's face grows hard. "That's when I saw my first demon." His jaw clenches. "It looked like a man, but it picked up a car and tossed it right across the road." He shakes his head. "A _car_. And there were people in it. A woman and a child-- I could see them from where I was hiding. The woman was dead, but the boy was still trapped in the back seat, belted in.

"I didn't know what to do. I taught kids who yawned their way through St. Augustine and the Confessions, you know? I didn't know anything about…about _this_." Craig laughs without humor. "It was like a movie, only it never ended. Everywhere you looked there were buildings on fire. People dead or dying and I couldn't do anything about it but pray and hide like a…like a coward."

"Hiding doesn't make you a coward," Sam says. "It makes you alive."

"I started reciting this old exorcism…we talked about it after discussing movies that featured exorcisms. You know…_The Exorcist, The Exorcism of Emily Rose_. It's called the _Vade retro satana_. Do you know it?"

Dean nods. "I've heard of it. But it's, uh…"

"Kind of like saying _gesundheit_ to a demon," Craig continues. "But I thought it worked, because the demon stopped bashing the car." He hesitates, as if he's going to say more, but goes silent.

Dean waits. Sam taught him patience a long time ago. Sam's hands shift in his lap, and Dean wonders if Sam's even aware of the movement.

Craig sighs, and runs the back of one hand over his mouth. "There was another guy there. He had an ax." Craig's looking at the fire, but Dean knows he's seeing something else. "He cut the thing's head right off. And I saw this…smoke come out of the body. I was…freaking out, to say the least, but I managed to get to the car and unbuckle the boy. He was screaming. He pulled away from me and ran to his mother." Craig's voice is brittle; each syllable is injected with false calm. Dean recognizes the effort the other man's making; he's done it himself in the past. "And this other guy is telling me to give him the kid, because he's worth money. No, not money," Craig says, with a slight shake of the head, "he's worth credit. With the demons. Or other survivors. He's telling me how he can trade the kid for food or weapons, or whatever. But I'm not really listening because the kid is holding his mother like he's never going to let go. He's not screaming any more, but he's sobbing into her chest, and his face is smeared with her blood.

"This man--who just saved him from a demon--tries to pull the kid out of the car. The kid doesn't want to go, and I don't want him to go either—at least not with that…that _bastard_. So I shook off a little of my cowardice and was able to show my fellow traveler the error of his ways."

Dean lifts an eyebrow. "You did?"

Craig's mouth twists. "Well, not me so much as…" he trails off and pats the hammer hanging from his belt. "They make it look so easy to knock someone out on TV." His eyes shift to Dean's. "I find it to be much harder."

"So you got away?" Sam asks.

Craig glances back at Luke's sleeping form. "Yes. I pried Luke away from his mother and basically dragged him down the road. We've been walking for…I don't know…a couple of weeks. It's been slow going. And then we met you." He manages a shaky sigh. "The end."

"And Luke hasn't spoken in all that time?"

"He was definitely saying words when he was screaming over his mother. But I'm not sure what. It sounded like _I could have saved her_." Craig's voice finally cracks. "But he's just a boy. She was already dead. I tried to get him to talk a thousand times, but he just won't. I've bored him silly with my whole life story, asked him about his parents, where he's from…and nothing. But since we met you guys, he's definitely more outgoing. That's _something_, at least."

"Yeah," Dean agrees and his eyes slide to the sleeping boy. "I guess it is."

ooooo

When Izzy opens her eyes there's an arm pressed against her cheek. It's not her own. She blinks and takes a moment to figure out the arm is both thinner and smaller than hers. It belongs to Luke; he's curled beside her, shivering, and that's when she realizes she feels better. She takes a deep breath and stretches, decides she feels pretty good, in fact. But the sheen on Luke's forehead and his shivering tells her he doesn't, as does the fact that his bright yellow aura has paled to the color of unripe bananas.

Feeling guilty, Izzy pulls her sleeping bag over the boy. She shouldn't have let him sleep next to her. A glance around tells her everyone else is already up. Craig is sitting cross-legged on the ground, and Dean sits next to him, his arm propped on the wheeled carry-on bag. Dean's light blue aura mixes with Craig's soft pink one to create a patch of lavender. She rubs a kink out of her neck and gets to her feet. Moving closer, she can see what Craig is doing -- he's giving Dean a tattoo.

"That's so cool!" she breathes, impressed. "Can you give me one?"

"He's not doing butterflies," Dean snarks.

"I don't want a _butterfly_," Izzy glares. "I want a heart."

Dean rolls his eyes. "You would."

Craig glances toward Izzy. "My dear, you won't get anything if you don't move out of my light."

Izzy takes a step back. "Oh. Sorry."

Craig chuckles. "Not a problem."

Andy comes over and shows her his arm. An angry looking tattoo marks his upper arm, the same shield knot pattern that Craig wears. Izzy beams at him. "I like it!" She falters a little. "Did it hurt?"

Andy shrugs. "A little. But not much. And it's worth it if it helps protect me."

"Which we don't know if it will," Dean points out.

"Then why are you getting one?" Izzy demands.

"Because it's always better to be safe than sorry," Craig replies, his smile warm, eyes bright. "Isn't that right, Dean?"

Dean scowls, but Izzy can tell it's mostly for show. "I always thought my first tattoo would be so much cooler than this. And have boobs." He nods to Sam. "You're next, dude."

Sam's still sitting in the salt circle. It's scuffed now, the circle broken, and he's making a little pile out of the salt. He doesn't look up, but his answer is loud enough for them to hear. "I'm not getting one."

Claudia wanders over to Izzy and sing-songs, _I'm nobody! Who are you? Are you a nobody too?_

Izzy flashes Claudia a warning look. "Shhh." Sam's aura is a deep purple, almost black, and she crosses over to him, kneels beside him.

"Why not?" she asks.

"Why not?" Dean echoes. "Don't you think we should try whatever we can to protect ourselves? From overzealous hunters _and_ demons?"

"I don't need a tattoo for protection," Sam says simply.

Dean's eyebrows rocket upward. "Oh really? And why's that?" Craig holds the needle steady above Dean's arm, waiting for him to calm down.

Sam looks up and meets Dean's hard expression. "Dean. If the Sixers find me, they're either going to try to get me back, or kill me. And if somebody recognizes me, all the tattoos in the world aren't going to save me." He looks back down at the little pyramid of salt. "Besides, I don't think I can be possessed. Not anymore."

"What makes you think that?"

Sam's finger drifts in the dirt and he draws a circle filled with intricate lines. Izzy doesn't know what it is, but it looks kind of pretty. "I just feel it," Sam finally says. "Just like when I used to sense things. How I helped Andy and that girl last night. I just _know_."

"That's not good enough for me," Dean says. "It's just not. I need you to be safe."

"I need you to trust me."

Sam's aura flashes royal blue to dark purple and back to blue.

Dean sighs and nods for Craig to continue with his tattoo. "Sam, I do trust you."

"He has faith he doesn't need a tattoo," Craig says, concentrating on making the last loop of the shield knot. "Sometimes a little precaution and faith can go hand in hand."

"I don't have faith," Sam blurts. He gets to his feet so quickly that he stumbles and puts a hand on Izzy's shoulder for support. "Not anymore."

Craig looks at Sam for a moment, then goes back to the tattoo. "I do."

Dean can't keep the disbelief from his voice. "You believe in God? After all this?"

Craig dips the needle in the ink, then carefully inserts it into Dean's arm. "Yes, I do."

Claudia tilts her head. _Why?_ Izzy has a better question. "How do you know God even exists?"

"I see proof every day," Craig says, blotting Dean's arm with a paper towel.

"What proof?" Dean asks grimly. He glances around. "_Where?_"

"Right here." Craig smiles and wipes the needle down with a handy-wipe. "He kept me alive." He looks at Dean, his face calm. "And then he led me to you."

ooooo

Dean's relieved Izzy's feeling better, but Luke apparently caught her bug, because he's wrapped in her sleeping bag, still fast asleep. His face is so pale, his skin looks almost translucent.

Izzy is sporting a shield knot of her own—as well as a little heart—and the ink and needle have been put away. Sam is answering more of Craig's questions and Dean stands over the sick boy, frowning.

"So now what?" he asks. "I guess we could hang around here for today." Except he doesn't want to hang around here. They have fresh supplies and the weather's decent. He hates wasting a day like this, but it's not like he can just drag Luke along. Maybe they should head back to Elk City and look for a wagon.

"I don't think we should stay here any longer than we have to." Sam strides over to Dean, his own face drawn. "We really need to get going."

"I know that, Sammy, I do. But what about the kid?"

Sam bites at his thumbnail for a minute, then moves over to Luke's sleeping form. He feels the boy's forehead. "Feels like a slight temp," he says. "Can you bring me some water?"

Dean pulls a fresh water bottle from his duffel and hands it to Sam. Sam gently shakes Luke awake. The boy's eyes open slowly, then he burrows deeper into the bag and tries to turn away. Sam smiles faintly at Dean. "It's like trying to wake you."

"Ha ha. Very funny." But Dean grins back, careful not to let on how good it feels to have Sam mock him. It's these glimpses of the real Sam that keep him going.

Luke finally turns back to Sam, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He blinks at Sam, his face pinched. Sam offers the bottle to the boy and instructs him to drink, and Luke's expression softens a little. He takes a long swallow and hands the bottle back, rubs his head and makes a face.

"Not feeling too good?"

Luke shakes his head. _No_.

"I'm sorry about that. But we were hoping we could keep walking today."

Luke looks crestfallen, but Sam hurries on. "Would it be okay if I carried you?"

Luke regards him with a clearly doubtful look, and Sam's mouth twitches into a smile. "You have a choice, okay? I can carry you like this—" Sam holds his arms like he's carrying an invisible bride over the threshold, "—or I can give you a piggyback ride, if you feel up to it."

Luke leans forward and taps Sam's back. He offers up a tentative smile to match Sam's.

Sam nods and looks to Dean. "Okay. It's settled. We keep going."

Dean's grin almost breaks his face. Not only are they hitting the road, but Sam actually interacted with someone else. _Of his own accord_. He starts whistling as he packs his gear.

ooooo

His good mood takes exactly three hours to die. By two in the afternoon he's already tired and his left foot has a blister roughly the size of the moon. He's sick of walking, the endless monotony. Although, at least monotony roughly translates into _safe_.

Andy and Izzy are walking shoulder to shoulder, and Dean thinks something must have happened between them, because they've gone from being chummy to looking at each other with heart-shaped goony eyes. Dean can barely keep from rolling his eyes right out of his head every time Izzy giggles at some (apparent) witticism from Andy.

_Quit being such a dick_, he tells himself grimly. He's glad for them. He loves them both. It's just that letting yourself fall in love now, during the end of the world, seems a little dangerous. A little careless. He shrugs and scratches the back of his head. What does he know? He's no expert on love.

The sound of laughter pulls Dean's thoughts away from the Wonder Twins. Luke is grinning on Sam's shoulders, his laughter like bells. He's got two loose handfuls of Sam's shaggy hair and Sam is veering back and forth across the road as if the kid's steering him. Dean's mouth drops open in amazement.

Sam's laughing too until he veers too close to an abandoned mini-van and clips his shoulder. Sam pivots wildly, trying to keep his balance, his arms flailing to keep Luke aloft. Sam goes down anyway, but he manages to pull Luke forward over his head and against his chest in a sort of frenzied somersault so the kid is cushioned from the impact.

It takes Dean ten steps to reach Sam. Luke's eyes are wide and he looks rattled, but he's not hurt. Dean scoops Luke off Sam and deposits him next to the van. "Sam?"

Sam's on his back, his face red, eye closed.

Craig puts an arm around Luke. "You okay, son?" Luke nods.

Sam's eye cracks open and he stares up at Dean.

Dean offers Sam a hand and his brother takes it. "What happened?"

Sam looks away. "I just…forgot."

Izzy and Andy crowd into the group. They're asking about Sam, but Dean doesn't have time for them right now. He looks expectantly at Sam. "Forgot what?"

"That my peripheral vision is shot to hell. I shouldn't have been running with Luke. It was stupid. And irresponsible." He turns to Luke, adam's apple bobbing. "I'm sorry, buddy. I'm really sorry. Did I…are you hurt?"

Luke shakes his head. He gives Sam a thumbs up and Sam's face goes blank. "Good. I'm glad." He takes a sudden step back from Luke, as if the kid's gone radioactive. "I'm sorry," he repeats. His eye shifts to Dean, to Luke, and to the road ahead.

Dean knows that look by now. It's Sam's _panic_ look -- he's a spooked horse, ready to bolt. Dean puts a firm hand on Sam's arm. "Sam. It was an accident. It's no big deal."

Sam shakes his head, and Dean can tell his brother's already tuning him out.

Dean drops to one knee in front of Luke. "Are you sure you're all right?"

Luke gives him the A-OK sign and nods.

"Good. Can you walk for a little bit on your own?"

Luke gives Dean a look that seems to say, _I don't feel good, but I'm not dying_, and Dean almost laughs. "Okay. Can you excuse us for a second? You guys keep going, we'll catch up."

There's a general shuffling of feet and an exchange of uneasy glances, but Craig, Luke, Andy and Izzy head down the road after Dean makes a _get going, already_! motion with his hand.

Sam's head is down and he's doing the hunched thing. Dean is torn between hugging him and punching him. He doesn't know which response would help more.

"Sammy?" He raps on Sam's head lightly. "Are you in there? You listening to me?"

Sam turns his head toward Dean but doesn't look at him. It's better than nothing.

"What's going on?" Dean demands. "It was an accident, pure and simple. Next time don't run around with a kid on your shoulders." He pats Sam's shoulder. "There, problem solved."

Now Sam does look at Dean. "Problem solved? Are you _high?_ I'll never solve this!"

Dean sighs. "What did I tell you about the melodrama, Sam?"

Sam's hand shoots out and fists into Dean's shirt collar. One minute Dean's an arm's length away, the next he's yanked nose-to-chin with Sam's glowering face. "Don't patronize me," Sam chokes out.

Dean's hands go up, palms out. "I'm not. You just seem like you're, you know, over-reacting. You act like you mortally wounded the kid, but nobody got hurt, Sam. Everything's okay. Even Luke said so. I mean, he didn't _say so_, but you know what I mean."

Sam abruptly lets go of Dean, and his hands plow into his hair, pulling it into spikes. "I thought if I took care of him, if I…if I helped him, I could make up for something. Like when I tried to help that girl last night. But I can't. I can't make up for anything."

Dean sighs. "It's not a scale and balance thing. It's not how many people you save or you don't. It's what you do right now. And yeah, you did help that girl, and you were helping Luke. I _know_ you want to make up for what you did, Sammy. I know you want that more than anything." He grasps Sam's arms and shakes him a little. "But you can't. You can just go on. Keep going. Do the best you can. That's what you can do. Hell, that's what I do. Just. Keep. Going."

Sam shakes his head. "I can't."

"You can. Even if I have to kick your ass all the way to New Mexico."

Sam trembles beneath Dean's grip. "I stabbed a kid his age, Dean," Sam chokes out. His voice is broken glass, the words bleeding from his mouth, his eye wide and desperate. "In the face. I look at Luke and I see that kid. I look at Luke and I think, I can fix it." A single tear spills down his face. "But I can't. I get that. I just want to. I want to _so badly_."

Dean's stomach drops like a stone at the words I stabbed a kid, and it takes everything he has to keep his face neutral. He'll think about that later. Not now. "I know you do," he says, voice gentle. "I know."

He slings an arm around Sam's shoulder and propels him forward.

"I just don't know what to do sometimes," Sam says. He sounds lost, and Dean's chest aches, actually _aches_ for his brother.

"That's okay, man. I'm smart enough for the both of us."

It doesn't earn him a smile, but at least Sam meets his gaze. "You couldn't kick my ass all the way to New Mexico anyway."

Dean snorts. "What? You think I'd get tired out? I doubt it, Sammy. I'm in pretty good shape."

Sam's lip twitches ever so slightly. "I don't think you'd be able to reach."

Dean blinks at Sam in surprise. Then a startled laugh bursts out of him and he shakes his head. "I have to say, that was a pretty good one, Sam. Of course, it also proves that you're a gigantic bitch."

Sam shrugs, but now a smile ghosts across his face. "And you're a jerk."

It's the closest they get to saying _I love you_.

ooooo

It doesn't take them long to catch up with the others. As soon as they're in view, Luke runs over to Sam and grabs his arm. He points to Sam's shoulders, then to himself.

Sam doesn't know what to do. Doesn't Luke realize he's dangerous? _Not to mention half blind_. "I don't think that's a good idea," Sam starts, but Luke just pulls on Sam's arm like he's ringing a bell.

Izzy leans in and whispers in Sam's ear, "Do it. He likes you. Just don't fall on your ass this time."

Sam doesn't understand why Luke likes him. He's afraid to pick the boy up, but he's also afraid to say no. He's paralyzed with indecision until Dean winks at him. "I used to carry you around like that. It was like lugging a bag of wild cats on my back."

Sam remembers riding high on Dean's shoulders. All these years later, and Dean's still carrying his weight. Sam nods and bends low for Luke to get on. "Are you sure about this?"

Luke grins, eager. He looks so young, so happy. The fever is gone and his eyes shine. He looks the way a kid _should_ look—carefree, excited -- and Sam has the power to put that smile on Luke's face just by picking him up. He'll do anything to keep that look there. And Sam realizes, right there, standing in the middle of nowhere, that that's the exact reason Dean has given up so much for him.

ooooo

"You know," Dean tells Luke, "our Mom was killed by a demon when Sam and me were little. Sam was just a baby."

Luke regards Dean with wide eyes from Sam's shoulders.

"Craig says a demon killed your Mom too."

Luke nods and his face contracts. He looks away from Dean, his lips pressed together.

"I'm just trying to say we know what it's like to feel alone. Not to have a family. But you're not alone, Luke. You have us. We're all your family now. Is that okay with you?"

Luke nods again, still not looking at Dean. Before Dean has a chance to say something else, the boy taps Sam's arm. He points to the ground and Sam lowers himself carefully to let the boy off. Luke stands in front of the brothers looking nervous, his eyes suspiciously bright. "Are you okay, buddy?" Sam asks. In reply the boy throws his arms around Sam's waist and hugs him.

Sam goes perfectly still. He doesn't move. He can't. This boy, this boy who's lost his whole world, is hugging him. Why? He doesn't deserve it. But even if he doesn't deserve it, the boy does, so Sam slides his arms around Luke for a long moment. Then he gently pushes Luke back and steers him toward Dean.

Dean waves Luke off with an uneasy smile. "That's okay. I don't need a hug. I'm good. Really."

Luke grins and practically launches himself at Dean. "Hey, I want a hug too!" Izzy proclaims, and throws her arms around Luke so the boy is trapped between her and Dean.

"Get off me," Dean growls, but he's trying hard not to laugh.

"You're always such a crabass, you know that?" Izzy huffs at Dean. She ruffles Luke's hair and he takes her hand. "Let's leave these two losers in the dust," she grins and skips ahead, swinging Luke's arm until he skips too. "Follow the yellow brick road," she sings and Luke laughs.

Dean bumps Sam's shoulder with his own. "He's a cool kid, huh?" They keep walking, Andy and Craig behind them discussing the merits of Stephen King. "He reminds me a little of you when you were a kid," Dean says softly.

Sam thinks about all the times Dean took care of him, played with him, helped him with homework. All the times he kept Sam company in the backseat of the Impala or in a dingy motel room when Dad was gone. He can tell Luke is a good kid. A sweet kid. He was nothing of the kind. He was a selfish kid, and then a selfish adult. He can feel regret's hand on his shoulder; it's heavy and unforgiving.

"There's one thing Luke can do that you never did figure out," Dean says with a sidelong glance.

"What's that?"

"Be quiet for more than two seconds."

"What does that mean?"

"Dude. Once you hit four you didn't shut up for more than thirty seconds. _Why this_ and _why that_ and _blahdy blah blah_."

Sam snorts. "Really?" He tries to imagine himself as this tiny inquisitive person, someone with hope and possibility and a future. He can't.

"Really. And once we grew up you tried to get _me_ to ask questions. To talk about what I thought. And felt."

Sam can feel Dean's eyes. His throat is dry. "I guess I did."

"So I'm returning the favor, Sam. I'm asking you to talk to me. What's going on in that head of yours?"

The call of a bird makes Sam look up. A grey heron floats above them like a kite.

Sam shrugs and offers an easy smile. His mouth knows the right position to fool Dean now -- he's been practicing. "Nothing. I'm okay, Dean, I'm getting better." He figures if he says the words enough, someday they might come true.

ooooo

They take a break around six. There's plenty of light left, but Luke's starting to look a little piqued, and Dean wonders if maybe they overdid the walking. The kid is with Craig, and they're sharing a snack size container of apple sauce. Dean walks over and parks himself next to them.

"How's your arm feeling?" Craig asks.

Dean pulls up his sleeve and inspects the tattoo. His skin looks a little raw, but not too bad. The tat actually looks pretty good, all things considered. "It's okay. You did a bang up job, Professor." Dean shows Luke his arm. "You want one too, right?"

Luke's eyes go wide and he shakes his head back and forth in a hurry.

Dean laughs. "I'm just kidding."

Luke relaxes visibly. He makes a face at Dean.

Craig chuckles and puts an arm around the boy. "This young man doesn't need a tattoo for protection. Not when he has us. Isn't that right, Dean?"

"You betcha." Dean nods in approval. He pulls open a bag of chips and offers one to Luke. The boy takes it with a grateful smile.

A few feet away Izzy pokes a microscopic straw into a juice box and takes a sip. "Hello sugar," she says cheerfully. "How I've missed you." She makes a face and rubs at her nose. "Aww, _man_. I think I'm getting a pimple. It hurts."

Andy rolls his eyes. "Maybe that's because everything you eat consists of either salt or sugar. Besides, I wouldn't worry about a pimple. You've got bigger worries."

She takes another noisy slurp from the juice box before frowning at him. One eyebrow jerks up. "Like what?"

"Like the fact you smell like armpits and feet."

"Yeah, I know," Izzy responds. "I smell like you."

They glare at each other for a beat before breaking into laughter. "That's a good one," Izzy giggles. "Armpits and feet. Someday I'm going market a perfume and that's what I'm going call it."

Andy nods earnestly. "It's gonna be a big seller. I can tell."

Sam sits nearby, listening. He's not quite part of the group, but he's not quite out of it. He looks at the bag of soy nuts Dean gave him. Sam knows it was a gesture on Dean's part, a nonverbal, _here's something vaguely healthy for you, for God's sake, please eat_. Sam balances a nut on his knee, squints, and flicks it off. It lands in the grass beside the road.

"That's not exactly what I was hoping for when I gave you those."

Sam glances up. Dean's looking down at him. Sam flushes and pops a nut into his mouth. "Sorry," he mumbles.

"Don't be sorry," Dean says. "Just eat. If you're not careful Luke's gonna have to carry you."

This earns him a brief smile. Sam rests another nut on his knee, and this time he flicks it at Dean. It bounces off Dean's chest and lands by his foot. He gives Sam a look. "You are gonna be so sorry you did that."

He grabs the bag out of Sam's hand and tosses a nut at his brother's head. Sam claps a hand to his good eye and doubles over. "Ah. Dean."

Dean drops the bag and grabs Sam's arm. "Sammy! I'm sorry. Let me see, okay?" Panic threads through his voice. Sam's hand pulls away from his eye and he smacks Dean right on the forehead.

Sam grins. "Dude. You are so easy."

Dean is dumbfounded. "You jackass! Don't you ever do that again!"

Sam shrugs. "Don't throw things at my head, Dean. You might take an eye out."

"That is so not funny."

"It's a little funny."

Dean's face splits into a broad grin. "Okay," he agrees. "It's a little funny."

"Dean." Something in Craig's voice pulls the smile off Dean's face. The professor's walking toward him, his face grim. Luke has migrated over to Izzy and Andy. "Look over there," Craig says, and gestures toward a Holiday Inn just off the highway. The hotel has a few broken windows, but looks more or less intact.

Dean looks. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just some—Wait. What is that? There's a figure standing near the entrance. Not just one figure, two. Are they holding guns? Holy shit, how could he have missed that? He backs toward Izzy. "Izzy? Are you getting any demon vibes?"

Izzy doesn't even look up. She's in the process of painting Luke's fingernails black. "Yeah. Because my first response to hearing there are demons in the area is to paint Luke's fingernails."

"Huh," Dean says. "You're not at all a bitch."

Izzy smiles sweetly. "Why thank you."

"Okay, that right there? Was sarcasm."

"You're messing up my concentration, Dean. It's not like we're in a salon, you know." She glances up into the full brunt of Dean's glare. She doesn't even flinch. "There aren't any demons."

"And you really think this is a good time to turn Luke gay?"

Izzy huffs. "I was going for goth, but either's fine with me." She beams at Luke and touches the tip of his nose with her finger. "You are _such_ a cutie."

Luke's face turns pink with embarrassment. His mouth doesn't smile, but his eyes do.

Dean returns to Craig and Sam. The three of them stare at the hotel. The two people at the hotel seem to be staring back.

"I think they're just regular people," Sam says, his voice low. "They just took over the hotel. Who knows how many are really in there."

"Yeah, well, they have guns," Dean says.

"So do we," Sam points out.

"They might be hunters," Dean says, rubbing a hand through the thick stubble on his chin. "I think we better go before they get curious." He doesn't move, though. He feels like he should go investigate, see if they can work together -- there's safety in numbers, after all -- but he can't take the risk. This new, unimproved world is filled with too many unknowns. Too much death.

"I think you're right," Sam says.

So they move out, away from the strangers. They don't look back.


	6. Chapter 6

Now that the season finale is over, this is officially AU. Thank you for reading and all your kind words and comments. hugs

* * *

_When heroes go down  
They go down fast  
So don't expect any time to  
Equivocate the past. _

When heroes go down  
They land in flame  
So don't expect any slow and careful  
Settling of blame.  
--Suzanne Vega

  
Chapter 6

A noise wakes him. A rustle. Flapping. He opens his eye to see the bird staring at him, the heron, just standing there, less than three feet away. Its yellow eyes watch Sam lazily. "I thought he said nothing bad was going to happen to you," it says casually, as if they're old friends.

Sam scrambles into a sitting position, wary and on guard before he's fully awake. How did it get here? Why didn't he wake up earlier?

The bird smirks, eyes bright with contempt. "Didn't he say as long as he was around, he wouldn't let anything happen to you? I think maybe Dean's definition of bad leaves something to be desired."

Sam keeps his gaze locked on the heron, but one hand slides behind him, feeling for his gun._ Get out of here._

"Are you going to make me, Samuel? You and what army?" Its head turns, one amber eye focused on something behind Sam.

Sam risks a look over his shoulder and his stomach cramps with shock, then dread. They're gone. Dean, Andy, Izzy. Craig and Luke. All of them—gone. He's sitting alone in an empty circle. No, not quite alone. Sam stares at the heron, heart thundering. "What did you do?"

"Me? I didn't do anything." The bird pecks sharply at a wing, grooming itself, then raises its head and stares steadily at Sam. "But I'm afraid you did." It jerks its beak towards him. "Take a look."

Sam looks down at his hands. They're covered in blood. It's crusted under his fingernails, embedded into the lines of his knuckles, his palms, his pores. His skin is stained scarlet all the way to his elbows. His brain shuts down. He can't manage anything beyond no. _No. I didn't do this. I didn't._

"No," Sam chokes on the word. "You're lying."

The heron cocks its head. "Am I?" It rears up in a flash of motion, head high and wings flapping so hard Sam feels the rush of air on his face. It lunges at him, beak a snapping razor, slashes at his throat. It's over before Sam can even register what happened. His bloody fingers clutch at the torn skin of his neck, but it's too late. His own blood is flowing now, hot and fast, and there's no time, no time for regret, no time to feel thankful.

ooooo

Dean's trying to trim the thing on his face that passes—just barely--for a beard when Sam cries out. Dean hesitates, eyes on Sam, watchful, but Sam stays silent so he turns back to the chipped hand mirror and raises the scissors. That's when Sam starts bucking, a gasping scream ripping from his throat.

Dean doesn't remember dropping the mirror and scissors, but he must have, because when he gets to Sam, his hands are free. He pulls Sam into a sitting position and crouches in front of him. It's another nightmare, he's sure of it, but his eyes flick over Sam's face and chest just to be sure, just to check (_no blood, there's no blood_). Sam's eye opens and it rolls wildly for a moment while he wheezes, hands flailing. Dean snaps his fingers in front of Sam's face until his gaze lands on Dean. That's when Sam manages a ragged breath and goes still. He blinks at his hands, then at Dean. "Are you…are you okay?" Sam's voice is a harsh rasp.

There's a flurry of activity around them. Izzy's there with a water bottle and Andy's hovering, face tense. They've been jerked awake by Sam's screams before, but it's not something you can get used to. Craig and Luke watch the commotion from their sleeping bags, Luke's eyes round with worry.

"I'm not the one who just woke up screaming bloody murder," Dean points out. "So, yeah, I'm okay. I'm guessing you're not."

Sam inhales, lets the breath out slowly. One hand ghosts across his throat and then drops back into lap. "I'm okay."

Dean's not convinced, but he lets it go. For now.

ooooo

Sam's sure Dean will try to pry the truth out of him later, but right now he's grateful for the reprieve. In the distance, he hears the guttural _caw_ of a bird (_the_ bird) —three quick bursts of sound—and he pushes himself to his feet.

He doesn't know if the dreams have any portentous meaning or not, but he can't risk it. They have to keep moving, get to New Mexico (_before it's too late_). Maybe the dreams aren't omens and his brain is just broken, maybe the bullet in his skull is poisoning him, slowly but surely, twisting his thoughts. Either way, he doesn't blame Dean for anything, not one thing. He knows if it were up to Dean nothing bad would ever happen to him. If it were up to Dean, Sam would be a lawyer right now and married to Jess. Dad would still be alive. So would Steve Wandell. So would the forty-three people he killed (_forty-three_) during those eight months of hell (_only it hadn't felt like hell, no, not then_). He can't remember all of the names, but he remembers the faces (_he'll never forget_), and they're with him now, always, embedded in his brain like shrapnel, like Dean's bullet. Every time he closes his eyes there's a face waiting. Maybe he'll get better, maybe he can go on living, but he'll never be able to forget. Or to forgive.

ooooo

Luke's the one who sees the bikes first. They're lying on the highway, abandoned, a backpack next to the smaller one, its contents strewn across the concrete. There's no one else around. The boy runs toward the bikes, smiling, but Dean calls him back: it could be a trap. Luke stops, but he looks annoyed, like Dean's being an ass for no reason. Dean scans the area carefully, on the lookout for movement, for anything that looks (_feels_) wrong.

"We're alone," Izzy says instantly. She bites her lip, listening to something no one else hears. "There's nobody else around."

Dean nods, but he doesn't feel much better. He walks a few steps closer to the bikes. They're old, dinosaur bicycles freckled with rust. The larger one is blue with a white wicker basket that's seen better days, the smaller pink with a banana seat and plastic tassels waving from the handle bars. Sam picks up a rock and tosses it at the blue one. It bounces off the rear fender with a sharp _clang_. There's no explosion, no demons, no nothing.

Dean bends down and gingerly pokes the backpack. He peers inside and then scrambles backwards, cursing. "Shit!"

Sam grabs Dean's arm, pulls him up. "What?"

Andy's already got his gun out and Craig pushes Luke behind him. "Everything okay?"

Dean nods. "Yup. No problem. Just an old shoe." He smiles, sheepish. "Took me by surprise." He punts the backpack across the median and on to the other side of the highway. Luke's all smiles again and runs over to the smaller bike.

Sam puts his face by Dean's ear. "What was it really?"

"It was a shoe," Dean says. He's still smiling, but it's slipping fast. His voice drops like a stone. "But there was still a foot in it."

ooooo

The first thing Luke does is pull the bike up and hop on, like he's part monkey. Sam wants to protest, the tires are probably flat, the chain might be broken, but Luke's already gone, his legs pedaling furiously. He coasts in a wide circle, tassels fluttering, glowing with happiness. The bike doesn't falter, doesn't waver. He's steady and confident and it's absolutely beautiful to watch.

The second thing Luke does is ride up to Sam. He pedals backwards, braking, and the bike skids to a stop. The kid's hair is windblown and his cheeks are flushed—not with fever, but excitement. He points at Sam, then to the other bike.

Sam regards the other bike with two parts amusement and one part trepidation. "Uh, Luke. I haven't ridden a bike in a while…" he offers weakly.

There's a tarnished bell attached to the handle bars. Luke presses the lever and a tinny _brrrring_ spears the afternoon quiet. "How about Izzy?" Sam suggests. "She's a little shorter and the bike might—"

Luke's answer is another _brrring!_

Dean gives Sam an encouraging shove toward the bike. "Jeez, Sam. If it'll make him quit that racket, get on the damn bike."

Sam aims a glare in Dean's direction.

"Scout a little down the highway," Dean suggests. "Once you guys—and by that I mean you, Sammy—can manage not to fall on your ass, we can figure out how many of us can pile onto those things."

Izzy bounces on her tiptoes. "Me! I can fit on!"

Andy grins and pulls her close. "No way. _I'm_ getting a ride."

"You're both going to trail behind us like the losers you are," Dean threatens and elbows Sam closer to the bike.

Sam rights the bike and sighs. He feels like one of those bears in the circus that has to ride the little tricycle. Granted, he's not quite the size of the bear, and the bike is much larger than a tricycle, but _still_. Luke rolls past again, his face bright. His smile goes all the way up to those big blue eyes, and Sam shakes his head, a rueful smile on his lips. Now he knows what Dean means when he whines about Sam's puppy dog eyes. The tires look okay, and he swings a leg across the bike. He sighs heavily and mutters, "I can't do this."

"That's what you said when you were five, too. You did it then, and you'll do it now." Dean rolls his eyes. "Dude. You have the shining. I think you can ride a freakin' bike."

Sam isn't so sure. He sits gingerly on the seat, feeling like an idiot. He feels a hand on his shoulder and turns to see Craig smiling at him. "You can do it, son."

"Luke's gonna be in New Mexico by the time you get your ass in gear," Dean laughs. "Come on, I'll give you a push." Dean puts a steadying hand on the back of the bike seat.

Sam swallows, puts a foot on the pedal and pushes down, the other foot follows suit. Dean runs along behind him, still laughing.

And then Sam's flying. Not really flying, but this must be what it feels like. His feet know what to do and he's five years old again, hurtling down the sidewalk while Dean races to keep up, shouting encouragement and pumping his fist in the air.

Sam throws his head back and laughs, his hair blowing, and races toward Luke. This—the speed of the bike beneath him, the rush of wind on his face—this feels like freedom, this feels like hope. Luke grins and flashes Sam a thumbs-up. Sam laughs harder, and returns the gesture.

And they soar beneath the clouds.

ooooo

Dean watches them go, bikes racing in tandem. From behind it looks like big Sam and little Sam, and Dean feels pulled between the past and present. Sam looks back over his shoulder and flashes a smile at Dean that's so pure, so honest, so real that Dean has to blink back tears.

Luke rings the stupid little bell again and they grow smaller and smaller until they're just specks in the distance. "Hey, come back!" Izzy shouts, but Dean shakes his head.

"Let them go," he says. "They'll come back." And he knows they will. He wipes at his eyes and bitches about dust and wind, but he doesn't care if Izzy believes him or not. There's a hot ache in his throat, but he can't stop smiling. Sammy. His Sam is back. Maybe not for good (_not yet, but he will be, just you wait_), but he's _there_.

Dean and the others follow after Sam and Luke, still visible on the outstretched arm of the highway. Izzy and Andy are grinning like conspirators, and Craig's talking about Luke. Dean nods periodically and his mouth makes noises, but his brain is full of Sam and the look on his face.

Finally, _finally_, things are getting back to normal. Okay, normal is the wrong word, because the world has gone to shit, but it's okay. Everything's going to be okay, because he has Sam and he has friends, and in a couple of days they'll be in New Mexico.

"Dean."

He glances at Izzy, but he's still not quite listening, because his head is full of plans. Plans for the future, plans for New Mexico, when he and Sam can finally stay in one place for more than one lousy night. They can have a _home_. The thought makes him giddy like a twelve year old girl, but he can't help it, because it's about fucking time to make plans, to hope, and maybe, just _maybe_, to dream.

"Dean!" Izzy cries again, and this time she's pumped up the volume and there's a spike of fear in her voice.

Dean's grin shatters and his mouth tastes like sand. He doesn't want to know, doesn't want to hear what she's going to say because he already knows. _It's not fair. Not now._

She grips his arm and her fingers are steel and part of Dean's brain thinks, _damn, she's stronger than she looks_, but the rest is desperately trying to backpedal away from the fear, trying to go back five fucking seconds to when everything was okay.

"Dean. _Dean_!"

Izzy's shrieking now, and her face is a white oval of terror. Dean snarls what? and he hates her—just a little—for ruining the moment with a reality he doesn't want.

She squeezes his arm harder and her lips move and Dean swears the words don't quite match her mouth. "Demons! Up ahead. Two of them!"

Dean looks down at Izzy's hand on his arm. Two demons are waiting for Sam and Luke. For all of them. He lets the rage at Izzy, at the fuck-up that is his life go, and a cold calm settles over him. There's no time for anger or fear, there's only time to run like hell (_to protect Sam_).

His feet are moving and he's barking orders, pulling out his gun while he flat-out sprints down the highway. Andy and Izzy are on his heels, breathing hard, and Dean can hear the metallic _snick-snick_ of the cartridge as Andy checks to make sure his gun is loaded. He can hear Izzy's panicked mutterings to Claudia, or maybe she's talking to Andy, he can't tell. "Sam!" Dean yells, trying to aim his voice like an arrow. "Sam! Luke! Get back here!"

There they are, circling each other, and there's the fucking chime of the bell. There's a stitch in his side and it feels like a blade jammed between his ribs, but it doesn't matter, because he has to get to Sam.

Dean waves an arm. "Sam!"

Andy's yelling too, and Dean punches his shoulder. "Do it," he growls, "Obi-Wan them back here."

Andy nods, his face tense, and he calls out, "Come back here," in a voice laced with something that makes the hairs on Dean's arms bristle. Dean knows the whammy won't work on Sam, but it'll work on Luke, and that's just as good. Sam will follow the boy, Dean's sure of it. Besides, they're flailing around like a bunch of crazy-ass Mexican jumping beans and if Sam doesn't realize something's up by now, he's a fucking moron.

But Sam's not a fucking moron—or any other kind—because he's on his way back. The smile is long gone from his face, and even though he's still too far to see clearly, Dean knows Sam's forehead is creased with worry lines.

Sam's bike wobbles and he half tips, half falls over. He catches himself, but slides off the bike, his long legs eating up the distance between him and Dean. Sam is scowling, eyebrows pulled down. "Dean, you know my vision is messed up, how long have you been waving for us?"

"There are two demons," Dean says and the words can't get out fast enough. "Izzy says they're close, did you—" But Dean never has a chance to finish, because Sam's bike is flying through the air. It spins madly into the windshield of a stalled sports car in the eastbound lane. Pieces of glass go flying, and a pedal whizzes past Sam's head.

Dean's eyes tick off their surroundings. A field to their left surrounded by a tottering wooden fence. The first trickles of a suburb to the right, a handful of tract houses and a gas station. Walking toward them are a man and woman. The demons. Dean's instinct is to head toward the city where there's more shelter, but he has visions of the gas station exploding around them, fire raining down.

Luke's off his bike, running toward Craig, and then he's in the air, his mouth an open circle of terror, and he's dropped into the ditch near the dilapidated fence.

There's too much screaming now, and Dean has no idea if it's Craig or Luke or Sam, hell, maybe it's him, and they're all running toward Luke. Luke's bike catches Craig in the back and he goes sprawling. Dean's relieved to see the professor start crawling toward Luke immediately and throw himself over the boy.

His relief is short-lived when he realizes Sam is making his way toward the demons, his arms outstretched. "Get down on the ground!" Sam commands, and then, "Andy! I need you!"

Dean lunges for Andy's arm, but all of a sudden Dean's too slow or Andy's too fast—he can't tell which—and Andy's racing for Sam. Sam grabs Andy's arm and yells again, "Get on the ground!"

The power emanating from the words makes Dean's teeth ache. He can almost see the words in the air, hot and heavy and metallic. Even standing a few hundred feet away, Dean's legs tremble in an attempt to obey Sam's voice.

The demons shriek in protest, but they both drop to their knees. "You're no match for us, human," the man spits at Sam, then grins. "Or should I say, Sixer? I know who you are Sammy. Your master is waiting for you."

"I don't have a master," Sam grits and aims a kick at the demon's head. His aim is off, either due to stress or his vision, and the force of the impact lands on the demon's shoulder. Still, it knocks the demon flat on his back. But the woman is on her feet now, and throws a punch that sends Sam over the fence and into the field.

"Sam!" The sound of the gunshots alerts Dean to the fact he's pulling the trigger before he's conscious of the movement of his finger. "How do you like the silver bullets, you assholes?" he shouts. Both demons jerk from the impact of the bullets, but they don't die.

Nearby Dean can hear the muttering of Latin, and he realizes it's Craig making his way through an exorcism. The woman pushes herself upright as Dean reloads his gun.

Sam's on his feet again, running toward Andy. He tackles Andy, pushing him to the ground, just as the woman points a hand where Andy had been standing.

"You bastards!" Izzy screams and she's scrambling from behind a car, silver knife glinting in the sun, but before it reaches its mark the woman lifts Izzy off her feet and throws her into the fence.

"_Stop_!" Sam shouts. He's holding Andy's arm again and his voice is the sound of a hammer. It makes Dean think of the stories Sam used to tell him when they were kids, stories about Thor and Odin. The demons stop, black eyes burning with rage. Craig finishes the exorcism, and the man throws back his head and shrieks the demon out. The curl of black demon-smoke twists up and away.

The man falls to his knees, hands in front of him, blinking furiously. "What. Is. Happening?" he moans. He turns and looks up at the woman. "Lisa? Are you okay?" He pushes himself to his feet, but the other demon grips the man's head and gives a violent jerk. They all hear the snap of the man's spine. She lets his body drop to the ground.

"You might stop me, but you won't stop all of us," she says through bared teeth, then grins at Sam, licks her lips. "And you, Sam, are one of us."

"No!" Sam lashes out with his hand and the demon is thrown backwards—pulled by an invisible wire—until she connects with an overturned trailer. She bounces off and lands face-down on the pavement.

Sam drops into a crouch, his head cradled in his hands. "Gah." His voice drops even lower. "Dean."

Dean pulls Sam into a one-armed embrace. "Sammy? You okay?" He's not going to ask about the telekinesis shit or the voice of doom right now, because Sam looks pale and sweaty and sick.

Sam nods and eyes Dean blearily. "I'm…okay." Dean turns to Andy. "What about you?"

Andy seems to have borrowed Sam's _panic!_ face, because he looks _this_ close to falling down. "I think so."

"Craig?"

"I'm okay," comes Craig's voice. "And I think Luke's all right. He's out cold, but nothing feels broken."

"Izzy?"

There's no answer.

Dean and Sam exchange a look. Dean tries again. "Isobel?"

And then Andy's face seems to collapse in on itself and he's running toward the fence shrieking at the top of his lungs. At first Dean doesn't get it, because _hey, there's Izzy_, and everything's fine. She's lying amongst pieces of the broken fence, but she's there. Only everything isn't fine, it's the fucking _opposite_ of fine, because she's not next to the fence, she's _on top_ of the fence, and a fucking piece of wood is sticking up through her chest where absolutely _nothing_ should ever be sticking up.

"Oh _fuck_," Dean breathes, and nobody else says anything, because that pretty much sums it all up, right there.

ooooo

Of course, when he turns his attention back to the demon, it's gone. But there's no time now for the demon. There's only time for praying and swearing and rifling through the first aid supplies, like maybe if he checks just one more time there'll be a gigantic pair of magic tweezers that'll pull the post out of Izzy and let her live. But there's nothing. _Nothing._

And it only took five minutes. Five minutes from feeling the beginnings of hope to looking down into the gory mess of Izzy's chest. Hope? Who is he kidding? There's no more hope. All that's left is despair, regret and loss. And there's plenty of those to go around.

Craig is watching over Luke. The kid is still unconscious, but seeing how there's no pieces of wood sticking out of him, Dean figures he'll be okay. Dean kneels beside Izzy, her right hand in his. Andy's on her left side, holding her other hand, and Sam's positioned behind her head, brushing the hair out of her face. Izzy's eyes are open, but she's not saying much. She keeps singing this little song that makes Dean want to yell at her to shut up, _just shut up_, so he clamps his teeth down hard enough to make his jaw hurt.

"I'm nobody! Who are you? Are you nobody, too? Then there's a pair of us—don't tell! They'd banish us, you know."

Andy's face is the color of old wax. "It's an Emily Dickinson poem," he says tonelessly. "She likes Emily Dickinson poetry. She used to say that poem was about her and Claudia."

Sam's face is twisted with pain. His eyes are wet and his face is red, as if he's been slapped. He brushes her hair with trembling fingers. "Izzy," he whispers, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Suddenly Izzy's eyes roll back and then refocus on Andy. "Get me out of here," she gasps.

"Hey Iz, it's okay, we're here."

She turns to look at Dean. "How'd I get back in the hospital?" Her words are vaguely slurred.

Dean blinks down at her. "You're…you're not in the hospital, Izzy. We're on our way to New Mexico. Do you…do you remember?"

Izzy squints up at Dean, then looks from Sam to Andy. "Huh. I thought…was back ina hospital. I can't hear Claudia. Medication used to take her away. Where's Claudia?" She shifts her focus back to Sam. "You're giving me headache. Move," she instructs, and Sam scrambles next to Dean. He puts a hand on her shoulder, keeps the other hand twined in her hair.

Dean feels a bubble of laughter hitch in his chest, because even now, Izzy is still a bossy bitch. And he loves her for it. Oh fuck. _Fuck_.

"Claudia's here," Andy says, tears running down his face. "Don't worry about that, okay?"

Izzy's face starts to crumple. "But I don't hear her. Don't hear anyone. I'm all…all alone."

Andy shakes his head vehemently. "No, babe. You're not alone. We're here. We'll never let you be alone. Never."

Izzy sniffs and her face relaxes slightly. She tries to smile. "My boys," she whispers. "My boys are here…" her eyes slide closed and her head lolls to one side.

"No!" Andy shouts. He shakes her arm and Dean squeezes Izzy's hand. "Stay with us," Andy begs. "Izzy, open your eyes."

Izzy's eyes flicker open and she stares up at Andy. "Wha? What's happening? Feel all…funny."

"There were demons, Iz," Dean says. "You warned us. You did a real good job, too. Everybody's okay." _Except for you._

Izzy's eyes clear and she turns her head, straining to see past Dean. "Is Luke okay?"

Dean pats her hand. "Luke's okay."

Izzy lifts her head with some effort, and her eyes go round as she looks down at her chest. "Shit." She manages a shaky laugh. "That can't…be good, huh?"

"I'm sorry, Izzy," Andy says and his voice breaks into a sob. "I…I love you."

Izzy smiles at him. "You're pretty okay yourself, Andy Gallagher." Her head drops back onto the grass and she pulls her hand free from Dean to pat Sam's arm. "Your aura is so pretty," she says. "It looks like there's a rainbow all around me."

"Izzy," Sam starts. "Please. Hold on."

"I don't think I want to," she says. "You know what I miss?" She turns to Dean and he shakes his head. "I miss the smell of _Dove_ soap. It's so…pretty. So good. That's what I hope heaven smells like. If there is a heaven." She coughs wetly Her lips are flecked with blood. "I'm tired. Wanna sleep."

Andy drops his head onto Izzy's arm. "Izzy," he whispers. "Please."

"Hurry up and get to New Mexico," she says. "Buncha lazy asses."

"You've got to come with us, Iz," Dean says and his throat feels ten sizes too big, each breath is like he's trying to force a watermelon down a straw. "Come on, now, Isobel. Come _on_."

"Nah. You g'on."

Andy's crying openly now, her hand pressed to his face. Sam stares down at her, his huge hand covering hers, eyes dry, his face stone. Dean begs her to stay with them. He promises, cajoles, and finally pleads through his tears, but Izzy is done talking. She just closes her eyes and smiles, until Sam jerks and looks down at her hand. He blinks once, twice, then lays it at her side.

Andy's eyes leak more tears and he kisses her hand. "No," he says, shaking his head. "_No_, Izzy. No."

Dean leans back on his heels. His hand moves to Izzy's neck and he feels for her pulse. There's nothing but stillness beneath his fingers.

ooooo

The three of them remain huddled around Izzy's body. Endless minutes tick by. An ant crawls over the toe of Sam's shoe. And then Andy's hand reaches out to grasp Sam's shoulder. Sam looks from Andy's hand fisted in the fabric of his jacket to Andy's face. His eyes are red and raw, his mouth a tight slash. "Bring her back." His voice sounds like splinters.

Sam stares at Andy, uncomprehending. "What?"

Andy jumps to his feet and pulls Sam up with him. "I said bring her back!"

Sam looks down at Izzy's face. Does she look peaceful? He thinks so, maybe a little. He has to believe she's at peace now, in a better place. He blinks at Andy. "I…how?"

"How the hell do I know?" Andy growls. "You fixed me. You fixed that Sixer the other night." He lets go of Sam's jacket and points to Izzy. "Fix her."

Sam shakes his head. "Andy, I can't. I wish I could, but I can't."

Dean moves slowly to his feet, positioning himself between the other two men.

Andy's face twists into a look of fury, of rage, and he hisses, "Fix her."

Sam puts his hands to his head. "Andy, you can't make me fix her, I don't know how. I'm not…I'm not a doctor."

Andy's lip curls. "Well you're _something_, aren't you? You've got something in you that knows how to…how to do things. So do this. Save her, Sam. _Please_."

"Come on Andy," Dean says softly. "It's too late, man."

Andy turns his rage on Dean. "Shut up! I'm not talking to you, I'm talking to him!"

"I wish I could save her," Sam says, and he does. He wants to more than anything. He doesn't want her to be gone. But he can't. _He can't_.

Andy stares at Sam a minute longer, than drops back to Izzy's side. He puts a hand on her face. "Wake up," he says. Then louder, "Wake up." Sam can feel the power in Andy's words, but they have no effect now. Andy's voice hitches but he tries again. "Please Izzy. For me. Just. Wake. Up."

Sam walks around Izzy and puts a tentative hand on Andy's shoulder. "Andy. Stop. You can't—"

Andy leans into Sam and shoves him backward. "Then you do it, Sam. You're the _special_ one. You're the one with all the fucking power. You bring her back."

The desolation in Andy's face makes Sam want to run, or scream, or hit something. He can't very well hit Andy, though, not now, not like this, so he stumbles away from him. "It doesn't work like that!" Sam protests. He feels sick and tired, and his head is pounding.

"Then how does it work?" Andy screams.

"I don't know!" Sam screams back. Their voices boomerang around the field. He doesn't know how he helps people. It's a mystery. It's intuitive. It's like knowing how to walk, how to breathe. It's instinct. He can help focus someone's ability—or his own—but neither he nor Andy can heal. "I can't bring her back, Andy, I'm sorry."

Andy's stares at Sam for a long moment, and then he hisses, "Then what good are you?"

"I know you're upset, Andy," Dean warns, "but you better watch your mouth."

"No!" Andy shouts, spittle spraying toward Dean, "I won't. Who's the one that traipsed all over the country looking for his crazy ass?" Andy demands, pointing at Sam. "_I_ did. I stayed with you, Dean. _Me_. I was there, not Sam. And you're going to take his side?" Andy rolls his eyes, gives himself an exaggerated smack on the forehead. "Of course you are. Because he's your brother. Your fucking special Sammy, and we all know that he's the only one that matters. But Jesus, Dean. I stayed with you. I'm still here. Why can't you take my side just once? Just one time."

"There aren't any sides here," Dean insists. "It's not like I can make Sammy bring her back. He's not a healer, he's got death visions, Andy. Do you really think that's going to help right now?"

Sam digs a finger into his temple, trying to push the pain away. Why couldn't he have had a vision? Why couldn't he have been allowed to save her? Hadn't he seen (_caused_) enough death? Why did it have to be Izzy? She deserved so much better than this.

Andy's arms drop to his sides and he visibly deflates. He seems to grow smaller, feebler before their eyes. "Please," he whispers, "couldn't you just try?"

"Andy," Dean's voice holds a warning.

Sam lowers himself next to Izzy. He takes a hitching breath and wraps one hand around the bloody spike of wood. He closes his eye, turns his head, and _pulls_. It comes out with a wet sucking sound that makes Sam's stomach heave. He tosses the broken wood into the ditch and puts a trembling hand on each side of Izzy's head. _Please Izzy_, he thinks, _come back to us. Not just for me. For Andy. He needs you. We need you. Please, God, if you can hear me, take me instead. Take me instead of her. Bring her back_. He waits five seconds, then ten, twenty. A minute ticks by. Nothing happens. Izzy's still dead and Sam is still useless.

Andy's voice slips back into monotone. "Sam."

Sam's standing in front of Andy, but he doesn't know how he got there. He's yelling, but the words don't feel like they're coming from him. He feels distant, wants to float away, but the words pouring out of his mouth feel like bits of lead keeping him here. "Jesus Christ, Andy, I tried! If I could save her, don't you think I would? Don't you think I'd save my mom? And Jess? And everyone I killed?" His arms are shoving Andy backwards and Andy's staring up at him now, all traces of anger gone. "Don't you think I'd save myself? I can't save anyone Andy. Do you get that? Do you understand? I can't save Izzy, _I can't save anyone_." And there's the sound of someone screaming and it might be him, but he's not sure. Andy and Dean are trying to grab him, which is interesting, because five seconds ago Andy was really pissed off, but now he just looks upset and more than a little scared.

Sam doesn't want them holding him back (_holding him down_), so he shakes them loose. It's easier than he expects and there, across the field, is a tree. He's running for the tree because there's something in him, something that needs to escape, something that's clawing at his guts trying to get out, and there's only one way to set it free. He pulls his fist back and slams it into the tree's mottled trunk and the overwhelming sense of relief pushes the blinding flash of pain away. He pulls his arm back again, and has time for another punch, and another, before Dean and Andy are on him again, yanking him back from the tree.

From a great distance he can feel the fire searing in his hand and up his arm and into his shoulder, and he welcomes it. He closes his eyes and waits for the flames to set him free, to purify him at last.

ooooo

"What the fuck did you do to him?" Dean roars, _this far_ from punching Andy's head in.

"I didn't do anything," Andy sobs, and they drag Sam back toward Izzy's prone body. Craig's with them now, holding one of Sam's legs, because Sam's a fucking giant and he weighs about twelve tons.

"How's Luke?" Dean grunts as they settle Sam to the ground.

"Better than Sam," Craig says. The older man's hands are shaking.

"Is he still out?"

Luke's not still out. In fact, he's stumbling toward them right now. He's got a peaked, shell-shocked look that Dean doesn't like, but at least he's conscious, which is more than Dean can say for Sam. "Did you do that to him?" Dean hisses. "Did you make him run into that tree?" There's a part of him that actually wants Andy to say _why yes I did, Dean_, because wouldn't that be better than admitting Sam freaked the fuck out and tried to shove his hand inside a tree trunk?

Andy shakes his head. "I didn't, Dean. I swear it. I know I said some…some horrible things but—"

Dean cuts him with a look. "Look, Andy, Izzy's dead. We're all upset. I get it, okay?"

Andy nods miserably and stares at the ground. A fat tear rolls down his face.

Craig jogs toward Luke. "Hey there, buddy, how are you feeling?" He puts a hand around Luke's shoulders and pulls the boy close.

Lucas squirms away, his big cobalt eyes fastened on Izzy. He looks up at Craig, then over to Dean. His eyes are like spotlights, and Dean can't get away from their beam. Luke tilts his head ever so slightly toward Izzy. _Is she…?_

Dean manages a hesitant nod. "I'm sorry Luke, she—" He doesn't know if he finishes the sentence or not because a piercing howl punctures his ear drums and stabs directly into his brain. It's Luke.

Dean can see the whites of Luke's eyes as the kid crawls over to Izzy. He screams the whole way, and it's the worst sound Dean has ever heard. It's worse than his mother screaming in the fire, it's worse than the sound Sam made after Dean shot him. He's never heard anything so _terrible_ in his whole life, and he's not a praying man, not by a long shot, but he prays right now that he never hears anything like it again. Craig crouches next to Luke and pulls him away from Izzy. It's like he's immune to the jagged wailing, and he just rocks the boy, his voice a low rumbling over Luke's shrill cries. It feels like years before Luke quiets into tortured sobs.

Dean falls backward onto his ass, more exhausted than he's been in months, maybe years. His mouth tastes like dirt and metal, and he's soaked in sweat. Sam breathes softly beside him—limp and mute—and Dean thinks maybe, maybe Izzy's the lucky one after all.

ooooo

He wakes to the sound of the Impala's engine and almost weeps with relief. He can't remember the last time he heard it.

Dean's got an arm out the window, his elbow dappled with late afternoon sunlight. He grins over at Sam. "Hey there Rip Van Winkle. I was beginning to think you were never going to wake up."

Sam reaches for his water bottle and takes a drink. "Sorry," he says. "How long was I out?"

"A couple of hours. And I'm just about bored enough to listen to you, so good timing, man."

"How much longer to Wisconsin?" Sam asks, smoothing the rumpled newspaper in his lap. He scowls down at the paper. "I can't wait to catch this fucker and exorcise it right back to hell."

"That's assuming it _is_ a demon and not something else."

"Like what?"

Dean shrugs, takes a sip of his coffee, makes a face. "Ugh. This is _nasty_. Tastes like tar. I don't know Sam, maybe it's a good ol' fashioned witch. Or a raw head. Sure, they like kids, but they can't be too finicky, can they? I mean, five dead in Milwaukee, who knows how many more this thing's killed?"

Sam reaches for a map on the dashboard, checks their location, and sighs. "We've got another few hours."

Dean nods. "What letter are we up to?"

Sam peers into the battered tape box. "M."

Dean considers. "Okay then, how about Mötley Crüe?"

Sam makes a disgusted face. "No."

"Fine, but that's the only pass you get. You sure you want to use it on Mötley?"

"I'm sure."

"Suit yourself. Then…Megadeth."

"Aw Dean, I thought you were going to go with Metallica," Sam protests.

"That's the obvious choice," Dean grins. "Come on, I could have picked Molly Hatchet."

"Megadeth it is," Sam says and reaches into the box. "Which one? _Peace Sells_?"

"You know it," Dean says, and cranks the volume knob as soon as Sam pops the tape in.

A large conversion van looms ahead of them, and Dean slows down to switch lanes. As they move left, Sam glances at the van and sees two faces pressed against the back window watching him. A boy and a girl, their faces pale and scored with stitches. The girl points a finger at Sam, and he stares back at her open-mouthed.

Her lips move, and it takes him a second to figure out what she said. _You did this_. Sam blinks, and then there's just a bored toddler in the backseat of the van flashing Sam an owlish look.

Dean yells over the sound of Dave Mustaine's voice. "What're you staring at?"

"Nothing," Sam says, but he can feel the first seeds of unease take root.

ooooo

"How long has he been like this?" Craig asks. Dean's sitting cross-legged beside Sam. Sam's eye is open, and he blinks occasionally, but he's _gone_. There's nobody home. _Sammy has left the building_. He won't respond to anything Dean does, not even when Dean flicks him on the forehead or pokes at his injured hand.

Sam's hand looks bad, but at least it gives Dean something to do. "You can't just leave me here, you bitch," Dean mutters, wrapping gauze around Sam's hand. "How am I supposed to feel superior to you if you just sit there?" He spent a good half hour pulling bits of bark out of Sam's knuckles. The hand's swollen to the size of the grapefruit, but there's not much he can do about it here, so he wraps it and keeps it elevated, and occasionally, in an attempt to get a rise out of Sam, he jabs it with an index finger.

Dean doesn't feel like talking—he certainly doesn't have anything to say—but his mouth won't stop going. He feels as if the words are a bridge, a link to Sam, and if he stops talking, Sammy really will drift away. And that? Is unacceptable. "You looked real good on that bike, Sam. I was proud of you for getting on, you know? For facing your fear. I _am_ proud of you." Dean amends. "Of course, I'd been even prouder of you if you'd wake the fuck up."

Dean leans down, puts his head next to Sam's. "And no matter what Andy said, you couldn't have saved her, Sam. None of us could have. This is not your fault. Well, this coma shit is sort of your fault, but Izzy dying wasn't. You did the best you could and that's all you can do, right? So how about telling me to shut up, huh?" Dean wipes at his face, sniffs hard. "Remember how I used to say you talked too much? I don't feel that way any more, Sam. I don't. I'll never make fun of you again if you just wake up." Dean shifts, rests a hand on his knee. "Okay, I probably will make fun of you because I'm kind of a jerk that way. But I still want you to wake up, Sammy. More than anything."

And Sam blinks, his gaze focused skyward, while a heron flies overhead.

ooooo

When dusk comes, Craig helps build a fire. The moon shines like a silver dollar above the trees. Andy's sitting a few feet from Izzy when Craig sits down next to him. Craig sets an apple and a cup of applesauce in front of Andy. "You should eat something," the professor says quietly.

Andy shakes his head. "I'm not hungry."

Craig sighs wearily. "I know that, son. But you need to keep up your strength."

"I just want her to wake up."

"I know."

"How can I just leave her here?" Andy wants to know. "I need her. I need her to be with me." His voice breaks. "And if I can't have her, I need something that belonged to her, you know? Something tangible. Something I can hold in my hand, because that's what Izzy was. She was _here_. You couldn't help but see her. And she could always make me smile. She had so much laughter for such a sad girl." Andy turns to look at Craig. "I loved her. I loved her and I didn't realize it until it was too late."

Craig shakes his head. "It wasn't too late, Andy. Not if you had one chance to tell her. If you told that girl you loved her just one time, then it wasn't too late. Dying is a hard thing, son, but if you die loved, you're still lucky. And Isobel was a lucky woman. I didn't know her that well, but I liked the woman I saw. She was a fine girl, Andy. You remember that. She cared about you." Craig pats Andy's shoulder. "And I know that doesn't much help right now, but someday it might."

Andy smiles and nods but he doesn't have much else to say. The only person he feels like talking to is Izzy and he's not sure she's listening anymore.

ooooo

It takes him over an hour of stumbling back and forth in the dark before he finds the knife. It's lying in the ditch next to the road, buried to the hilt in mud. Andy pulls it out and wipes it on the grass. Izzy's knife. She had picked it out because it was, in her words, _pretty_. The handle's inlaid with a wide band of mother of pearl. It isn't much, but it's his knife now. And he knows exactly what to do with it.

ooooo

Luke has wedged himself between Dean and Sam, and Craig's lying on Sam's other side. A salt line encircles them all. Dean is bone tired, but he can't sleep. He keeps listening to Sam, listening for some sign of _presence_, but so far there's nothing but the steady rhythm of his breathing. Luke is snoring softly. He finally cried himself to sleep and he's been out for the past few hours. Maybe his silence can find a way to communicate with Sam's.

Dean turns his head. Andy is still keeping watch over Izzy. Since the initial blow-up he's barely left Izzy's side. Dean isn't looking forward to the morning. The little morale they'd been clinging to is long gone, and New Mexico feels a world away. _I don't know what to do. I can't do this alone. Don't make me do this alone, Sammy_, he thinks, and closes his eyes. He waits restlessly for sleep, and it's a long time coming.

ooooo

"I had the weirdest dream."

Dean pulls into the parking ramp. It's ten stories tall, and even though it's almost nine at night it's still half full. It's also where the latest killings took place. Dean slips the EMF meter into his pocket and regards Sam with a curious look. "What kind of dream? Like a premonition?"

Sam shakes his head. "No. It was just…dark. And strange."

Dean pokes a finger in Sam's chest. "Just like you."

"Very funny." Sam stuffs his hands into his coat pockets and follows Dean around the car. He doesn't know how to explain just how bad the dream was. "It was like, most of the world died from that Croatoan disease. And there were demons everywhere. And I sort of went evil. And you shot my eye out."

"Sam, what the hell? I shot your eye out?"

"Yeah. I wore a patch."

"Like you were a pirate?"

"Dean, I wasn't a pirate. Are you even listening to me?"

"Yes I'm listening to you. It'd be a hell of a lot easier if you made sense."

"It was just…really vivid. Like usually, you start to forget what your dream was about when you wake up…but this—" Sam's voice cracks, and he's embarrassed, because it was _just a dream_, but it felt—feels—so real. Even now he can remember most of it, the faces of the dead and that lingering feeling of being utterly and completely lost. He tries to hide his emotions behind a cough, but Dean's got that look on his face that says _nice try, loser._

"Instead of thinking about your end-of-the-world pirate dream, why don't you help me with this friggin' case, huh?"

Sam stares at the ground. There's a wad of pink chewing gum next to his foot. Dean doesn't get it. He just doesn't get it, and Sam has no idea how to make him understand. Then again, maybe it's good Dean doesn't understand. He wouldn't wish the memory of that world on anyone. He sighs. "Yeah. Okay." He glances around their level, notes the position of the elevator and the door leading to the stairway, and nods toward the door. "Over there."

They head over to the stairway and Dean pulls the door open. It squeaks in protest. Dean grunts. "Homey."

Sam huffs in amusement, and then they're looking at a flight of concrete stairs that leads up into darkness and down into darkness. "So these look safe."

Dean pulls out the EMF and waves it around. Nothing happens.

Sam jogs up the stairs, then peers down at Dean over the railing. "This is where she was hanged. Rope tied to the railing and pushed over the side."

"It's where she was hung," Dean corrects.

"Dude, it's hanged."

"That just sounds stupid."

Sam's eyebrows jerk. "You sound stupid."

Dean glowers and starts after Sam. The EMF meter shrills an alarm half-way up the stairs, and he looks from the meter to Sam. "Huh."

Sam's grinning back at his brother when a movement above him catches his eye. He blinks and peers up into the gloom. A face peers back at him. "Dean!" Sam yells, and he raises his shotgun.

The woman's face is black, her tongue protruding. A rope still hangs from her neck and there's a piece of paper pinned to her shirt. Even in the semi-darkness Sam can read the rusty letters: _Hey bro, you're a little late_. "What the hell?" Sam breathes.

The woman's mouth doesn't move, but he can hear her just the same. _You did this. _

Sam tries to protest, but he can't. He focuses on the dream—was there a woman hanging from a tree? Did he—

The sound of the shotgun in the enclosed space is like thunder. Salt shot scatters the woman into nothingness. Dean turns to Sam. "Are you okay?"

Sam's pretty sure he's not.

ooooo

Dean opens his eyes to Sam's back. Sam's curled away from him, and Dean props himself up an elbow and shakes his arm. "Sam? Sammy?"

"He's the same," Craig says. He's eating a handful of cereal. "I've been trying to get him to react for the past half hour, but I haven't had any luck."

Dean exhales loudly. He sits up and glances around for Luke and Andy. They're both by Izzy. Great.

Craig follows Dean's gaze. "Let them be," the professor says. "They're mourning."

"So am I," Dean snaps. Then he feels guilty and sighs. "Look, Professor. I didn't mean to yell at you. It's just…"

"Everything sucks ass? Isn't that what you kids say?"

Dean can't help chuckling. Not just at the fact Craig called him a kid, but at the sound of the phrase _sucks ass_ coming out of the professor's mouth.

"Yeah, I guess it is," Dean agrees. He feels for Sam's pulse. It's strong and steady, but the jerk still won't wake up. "I don't know what to do," Dean admits. "I can fight ghosts and demons and raw heads and shtrigas, but I don't know how to fight a…coma. It's not like I can just blast him with rock salt and wake him up."

Craig's lips pull into a smile. "I don't think that would work."

"Me neither. But he's the one that says we need to get to New Mexico, and now we're stuck here because of him. It's so frustrating." _Not to mention terrifying._

"How is he?"

Dean looks up into Andy's face. Andy looks gray and haggard, and much older than the day before. Dean shrugs. "The same."

Andy settles himself inside the salt circle next to Dean. Luke comes up beside Craig and sits on the older man's knee.

"You guys want one?" Andy holds two energy bars out. Dean and Craig each take one.

"Thanks," Dean mutters. The energy bars taste like a horrible combination of sawdust and caramel, but it's better than nothing, or at least that's what he tells himself. Dean's gaze falls on Andy's wrist. He's wearing a bracelet woven from narrow blond braids. Dean take a bite of the bar and swallows. "Nice bracelet," he says quietly.

Andy nods. He meets Dean's gaze without flinching. "Thanks. I know it's weird and morbid, but I don't care. I needed something of hers."

"I get it," Dean says, and he does. He knows plenty about weird and morbid, and he's in no position to judge Andy. "You know," he says softly, "we're going to have to burn her."

Andy nods and now his eyes slide away from Dean's. "I know. But can we…can we wait until Sam wakes up?"

Dean's not sure he wants to wait that long—not that it will be that long of course—but he nods. "Sure." He goes back to eating his breakfast and they fall into silence. Sam's silence is the loudest of all.


	7. Chapter 7

I'm sorry for taking so long to update this. Thank you SO MUCH for your patience and all the lovely comments. You guys are wonderful.

* * *

_So I stumble home at night  
Like I've stumbled through my life  
With ghosts and visions in my sight  
We are always living in twilight.  
--The Weepies_

Chapter 7

Nothing feels real. He tells himself he's dreaming, but he's not, because every time Andy starts to convince himself he's someplace safe, someplace _else_, Izzy's still dead.

The hurt is so big he can barely feel it. It's there, though, waiting patiently in the shadows to overwhelm him. It's not just that he's lost the woman he loved -- he's also lost his best friend, and losing both at the same time is just too much. He wants the ground to open up and swallow him, he wants the sky to release an ocean and drown him, because this grinding sameness as every other day feels like a betrayal of the highest order. It makes his stomach hurt and his head ache and his eyes sting.

He takes a shuddering breath and wipes his eyes on the sleeve of his coat. Craig clears his throat, a little awkward. "I don't have the proper tools…but when we get to New Mexico, I thought maybe you'd like another protective tattoo." Craig hands Andy a slip of paper.

Andy blinks up at Craig, then stares at the paper a moment, unfolds it. His eyes immediately tear up, and the image on the paper blurs and disappears. He looks up at Craig, shocked. "You'd… you'd do this for me?"

Craig nods solemnly. "I would."

Andy wipes his eyes and his nose with the palm of his hand. "I don't know what to say. I. How." He takes a deep breath, tries to calm himself. "Thank you, Professor."

Craig nods. "You're welcome, son." He reaches down and gives Andy a gentle pat on the shoulder.

Andy refolds the paper and slips it carefully into his pocket. He wipes his eyes again and squints at Sam. He's still catatonic. Dean's busy digging through a backpack. Andy frowns, scanning the area. Where's Luke?

He spots the boy crouched next to the tree Sam attacked the day before, cradling his arm. Andy pushes himself to his feet. "Luke? Are you okay?"

Andy's shout alerts Dean and Craig and they both look up, startled. Luke tenses, as if he's going to run, but Andy puts his hands out, palms up, and walks slowly. "It's okay, Luke. You're not in trouble. I just want to look at your hand, okay?" Luke stares at Andy, then shrugs and looks away.

"What's wrong?" Dean calls.

Andy gently pushes Luke's left hand out of the way and gapes at Luke's right hand. The boy's knuckles are split and his hand is bruised and bloody. "Oh Luke," Andy breathes, chest tight, "what did you do?"

Luke lifts his arm to strike the tree again, but Andy grabs him around the waist and physically carries him over to Dean. "Look," Andy says, pointing to Luke's hand.

Craig blinks as if he's been struck, and Dean's face goes hard. "Luke, did you hit your hand on the tree?"

Luke stares down at his shoes, shifting from foot to foot. He glances back at Dean, then to Andy, then back at his shoes. He shrugs.

Craig kneels in front of the boy. "Luke, you can't be doing things like this. I don't want you to hurt yourself."

"Just because Sam did it doesn't mean you should. Sam shouldn't have done it either," Andy points out.

"No more punching trees," Dean tells Luke sternly, "do you understand?"

Luke nods. He leans forward and rests his head on Craig's shoulder. Craig rubs the boy's back, runs his hand through Luke's hair.

Andy slumps to the ground while Dean pulls out the first aid kit. "If you so much as go near a tree I'm going to put my foot up your ass, you hear me, Gallagher?"

Andy nods and stretches out beside Sam. "I hear you."

"Andy?"

"Huh?"

"You do know you're my friend, right?"

"I know," Andy says, and closes his eyes.

ooooo

They make their way up the stairs without further incident, and Sam opens the door out onto the eighth level. A tall black man and a big-eyed white boy cross the gloomy ramp to the elevator. They look familiar, but Sam can't quite place them. Dean pulls a newspaper clipping from his pocket and scans it. "It says five people were stabbed on the far end of the level," he says, and tucks the clipping back into his pocket.

Sam shakes his head in disgust. "Six people dead in this ramp alone? And how many more across the city?"

Dean starts checking the EMF meter. "We'll be ready."

"I don't think you will," says a voice. Sam and Dean turn in unison, both drawing their guns at the same time.

Sam Winchester regards them coldly. "I've been waiting for you," he says to Sam.

Sam stares, mouth open, heart racing. He glances at Dean. "It's a skinwalker."

The Other Sam scoffs. "I'm not a skinwalker, Sammy. I'm you."

Sam shakes his head. "No. You're not."

The Other grins, and his eyes are flecks of ice. "Yes," he whispers, "we're the same. And we killed all those people Sam. Does your brother even know he's hunting you?" The Other chuckles. "I mean us."

Sam backs away from the Other. It looks exactly like him, sounds like him, but there's a difference in the eyes, in the way it (he) carries itself, in the tone of voice.

"What's going on here, Sammy?" Dean demands, and Sam doesn't know how to answer because he has no fucking idea.

"Maybe they can help clue you in," the Other sneers, and looks behind Dean.

Sam and Dean glance back to see dozens of pale faces. Men, women and children, all dead. Dean lifts the shotgun. "Get back!" he warns.

"They don't want you," The Other says, "they want Sam. After all, he's the one that killed them."

"No!" Sam protests, a cold bead of sweat rolling down his back. "I didn't mean to. I didn't want to hurt anyone."

"Now that sounds like a good excuse," the Other says. He lifts an eyebrow and shakes the bangs out of his face. "Do you think they'll buy it?"

Sam turns to the silent crowd, their mouths thin lines of judgment. "I'm sorry," he begins, "I didn't mean to--" he stops abruptly and looks at Dean. He needs to be strong for Dean. He turns back to the crowd. "I can't take back what I did," Sam admits. "And I'm sorry for that. I wish I could take it back. But I have a chance to save some other people—people like you—if you let me go."

"You're not going anywhere," the Other says, pulling a long knife out of a sheath attached to his belt. He holds it up for Sam to see. "Remember this? If I recall correctly, this was one of your best friends." The blade twirls in the Other's fingers, and the cold eyes flash. "Why don't you come and say hello."

"Sam!" Dean yells. "Get away from him!"

Sam shakes his head, "I can't, Dean. I need to do this."

"You need to die," the Other snarls. "That's what you need to do. Do you really think there's redemption waiting for you? Second chances don't exist, Sam. Especially not for monsters like you." The Other Sam gestures toward the silent group gathered around them. "Do you really think they want you to have a second chance?" The Other points at Sam with the knife. "I'm afraid not, Sam. Your time is up."

"Not quite." The crowd seems to ripple and fade and a figure strides through the crowd. She tips an imaginary hat to Sam. "Want some help kicking this loser's ass?" Izzy asks.

Sam's chest aches at the sight of her. "I dreamed about you," he says in wonder. "You're Izzy."

"And you're Sam Winchester, kick-ass hunter extraordinaire," she grins. She nods to Dean. "Hey there, Dean."

Dean looks between Sam and Izzy. "I don't know what's going on," he says, brow furrowed.

"Sam has a battle he needs to win," Izzy explains. "And we're here to help him. Are you just gonna stand there and look pretty or are you gonna help?"

Dean squares his shoulders. "I'm gonna help and look pretty. I'm awesome that way."

Sam looks down at his hands and now he's holding the same knife as the Other. He doesn't know if this is real or if he's dreaming, but he knows he needs to beat this not-Sam, if it's the last thing he does.

ooooo

Andy doesn't say a word as they move Izzy's body to the edge of the field. She's away from the road and far enough from the trees that the fire won't spread. Andy stands looking down at her, and Dean searches for something profound and meaningful to say. All he comes up with is, "We were lucky to know her. She made the world a better place." He smiles, wistful. "And definitely a more interesting place, that's for sure."

Andy splutters a half sob, half laugh and nods. "Yeah. She did. She didn't just see colors, she made the colors, you know? And now...now everything just feels...dark."

"Dean." Dean glances over toward Craig.

"Sam's moving."

Dean hurries over to Sam, hoping movement equals good news. "Sam? Can you hear me?"

Sam's head turns, just a little, and his back arches. "_Now_ what?" Dean demands. If something happens to Sam—something more than what's already happened, that is—he's packing it in. New Mexico and the world be damned. He'll just curl up by Sam's side and they can fade away together. "Whatever this is," Dean whispers, gripping Sam's good hand, "you can fight it, do you hear me? Fight it."

ooooo

The Other Sam rolls his eyes. "You think you can actually beat me? You are delusional, Sam. I always heard you were special, but I didn't realize they meant soft in the head." The Other nods toward a group of watchful ghosts. "Just look at that, Sam. And those are only a handful of the people you killed."

"Shut up!" Sam growls. "You don't know me."

"Oh please," the Other sneers. "I _am_ you."

"Dean killed what was left of you a long time ago," Sam says, "you're not even real."

The Other shrugs. "I'm real to you, and that's what counts. I'm your personal ghost. These other phantoms? They're nothing compared to me. And you can't escape."

"You talk an awful lot for a figment of Sam's imagination," Dean says and pulls the trigger.

The Other Sam flickers and reappears behind Dean. "You missed," he hisses in Dean's ear, and slides the knife between Dean's shoulder blades. Dean sways, then drops to his knees. "It's okay," Dean says, blood foaming over his lips, "this isn't real and you know it. He can't beat you." Dean stares at Sam for another second and slumps to the ground.

All Sam knows is this _feels_ real. This feels like Dean is dying before his eyes and there's nothing he can do. This feels like _he's_ dying.

"You're a real asshole," Izzy says, and throws her knife. It flies through the air with perfect precision and the blade thumps hard and deep into the Other's chest. He staggers, but the smile never leaves his face. He pulls the knife out with a theatrical flourish and throws it back at Izzy. It embeds itself deep between her eyes. She stares at the Other and then flips him off. "I'm already dead, dickweed. You can't kill me." She pulls the knife out and lets it fall to the floor with a clatter. "But shit, that still hurts."

Sam launches himself at his mirror image, teeth bared. He knocks him backwards, throws a heavy blow at the Other's jaw. His jaw. The Other turns his head and spits blood onto the concrete. "Good one," he says. "But not as good as this." The Other's knife flashes and the blade feels cold and eager against his throat.

Sam grins. "That is good. But I'm better." He puts a hand on the Other's head and concentrates. "You're gone. You're nothing. You're not even a memory."

The Other writhes beneath him. "My name is Guilt and Misery and Regret and I'll haunt you until you die."

Sam cocks his head. "Go ahead. It doesn't matter if you follow me. I can still save those people in New Mexico."

"You couldn't save Izzy." The Other Sam grins brightly. "And you can't save yourself."

Sam lowers his face so that their noses almost touch. "This isn't about saving myself. It's about saving everyone else. The Other jerks below him and the knife slides into Sam's throat. It doesn't hurt. It doesn't do anything. Sam smiles. "You can't hurt me anymore," he whispers. "Your time is over."

The Other's eyes start to roll and Sam pushes himself up and off him. "So is yours," the other Sam chokes. "They're coming for you."

Hands reach out and pull Sam backward. Pale decomposing hands pluck at his arms and legs. "Let me go," Sam pleads, desperate, "I've got to get to New Mexico."

A man with a crushed misshapen head studies Sam's face. "You can't help them," he says and his voice sounds like dirt.

Sam stares into the man's cloudy eyes and doesn't flinch. "I can try."

ooooo

He rolls onto his side expecting to see grim faces and grasping hands, but instead there's Dean.

Dean hooks his hands into Sam's collar, as if he can't quite believe Sam is here. "What the hell?" Dean demands. "What the hell was _that_?"

Sam pushes himself up cautiously. His whole body aches, and his mind flips through recent memories, orienting itself: riding a bike, the demons, being thrown into the field. And Izzy. Izzy died. Izzy is _dead_. He tries to concentrate but his thoughts are like mist and they drift away. He remembers a pain in his hand and the dream. The _dream_.

His stomach is filled with acid. He feels like if they don't leave right now, the chance will be gone, he'll be too late.

Do you really think there's redemption waiting for you? Second chances don't exist, Sam.

He needs to get to New Mexico, not just to save the people there, but to save Dean. And his friends. And, maybe, just _maybe_, himself.

ooooo

Andy's the one who lights the pyre. They stand at a respectful distance while Izzy's remains burn. Andy's crying but he doesn't bother wiping the tears away. He takes a deep breath and tries to talk through the hot ache in his throat. "Izzy loved Emily Dickinson," he says softly, "and I just wanted to...to share this poem." He risks a quick look at Dean and Dean's head bobs in encouragement.

"The bustle in a house  
the morning after death  
is solemnest of industries  
enacted upon earth.  
The sweeping up the heart  
and putting love away  
we shall not want to use again  
until eternity."

Andy swallows. He turns away, hesitates, glances back at the fire. "I'll miss you," he whispers and walks off toward their circle of backpacks.

oooo

They leave the camp before the fire dies down. It's not just Sam who wants to get going; the air feels heavy with despair. Andy feels as if his whole body is made of lead, as if he's sinking into the ground with each passing step. He concentrates on breathing and wonders how he'll survive. At this moment, walking through the middle of nowhere, he would sell a leg—hell, _both_ legs—for some good weed. Even bad weed. He wants to be stoned, to forget the world for just five minutes.

"How are you?" Sam asks.

Andy jumps at the sound of Sam's voice. He pulls at his sleeves, stretches the cuffs over his hands, opens his mouth, shuts it. Tries again. "I think…I'm having some trouble dealing."

Andy watches the endless road uncoil before them. He blinks back tears. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Yeah. Of course."

"How did you...how did you survive when Jessica died?"

Sam's quiet for so long Andy thinks he's not going to answer. "I had Dean," Sam replies simply.

Andy nods and squints at the horizon. How long ago was it the Roadhouse burned? When everything started to officially go to hell? A year? Fourteen months? He wishes the Sixers had killed him along with Sarah.

He feels Sam's hand on his shoulder. "And you have us, Andy. You aren't alone."

Andy tries to smile at this unexpected kindness, but he can't. Instead he chokes out, "Thanks."

Sam keeps his hand on Andy's shoulder while they walk. Andy can't be sure, but when he looks at the road again, it doesn't seem quite as long.

ooooo

They walk until the sky turns the color of an old bruise. A faint sliver of moon pokes through a cloud; it's getting too dark to keep traveling.

Nobody's particularly keen on stopping, but it's too dangerous to keep going. They stop on the edge of the road, their backs pressed against a rusting guardrail. Luke slumps against Craig's shoulder and closes his eyes.

Dean taps the zipper on the carry-on bag. "Anybody hungry?" he asks.

Sam shakes his head. Craig and Andy make noncommittal noises, but Luke nods. Dean passes the boy a small bag of Doritos and a granola bar.

Sam can feel Dean's gaze, but he ignores it. He's too exhausted to eat—and not just from the walking. He looks down at his hand, flexes his knuckles beneath the gauze. There's surprisingly little pain. The scars along his arm have healed into a series of pale pink worms crawling across the inside of his skin. He runs a calloused finger over them and realizes they're a map of his life, of who he is, where he's been. Every scar on his body tells a story of loss and pain. The scars are an alphabet of regret and guilt.

Something bumps Sam's knee and he adjusts his sleeve. Luke's standing in front of him. The boy regards Sam with solemn eyes.

"Hey Luke," Sam says. "How's your hand?"

Luke glances at his hand, makes a so-so gesture. He manages an embarrassed smile. Luke points at Sam's hand.

"It doesn't bother me at all, actually." Sam touches the bandage gingerly. "But I shouldn't have hurt myself. And I promised Dean I wouldn't do it anymore. I want you to promise me the same thing, okay?"

Luke looks at Sam with wide eyes and nods. He holds his hand up in a scout's honor gesture. Then he settles down beside Sam and pulls something out of his pocket. He holds the object tightly and Sam can't quite see what it is.

"What have you got there?"

Luke bites his lip and shifts his gaze to the ground. He holds up a small bottle of black nail polish.

Sam studies the bottle. "Is that the nail polish Izzy painted your nails with?" Sam asks quietly.

Luke nods.

"Does it make you feel closer to her by using it?"

Luke swallows and stares intently at the top of the bottle. He doesn't look up, but nods again. He wipes his eyes with his bandaged hand and risks a quick peek at Sam's face. He calms slightly at Sam's expression and sniffs loudly. He lifts the bottle, then gestures with it to Sam.

"You want to paint my fingernails? Like yours?"

Luke swallows. He hesitates, and a dark blush creeps up his face and the tips of his ears. Before he can respond, Sam reaches out and places his hand over Luke's. "I'd like that," Sam says gently. "I think you're a pretty cool kid and I'd like to look as cool as you."

Luke swallows again, but he manages a half smile. Sam crosses his legs Indian style, and Luke kneels beside him. It takes a while in the growing gloom; it's no manicure, but in the end, Sam's fingernails are black. So is the skin around each nail, but he doesn't care. It makes Luke feel better, and that's what matters.

Andy moves over to Luke's other side. "Do you mind doing me next?"

Luke blinks in surprise and then he smiles, a real smile. He nods. Sam glances around for Dean, finds him trying to start a fire. "Hey Dean?"

Dean straightens up. "What?"

"Come here."

"Dude, I'm busy. Wait a sec."

"Luke needs you for a minute."

Dean ambles over. "What's up?" He takes in Sam's hands, sees Luke carefully drawing the little brush across Andy's thumbnail. He turns to Sam. "Uh, no. No way, Sam."

"It's for Izzy. It was Luke's idea."

Dean argues and throws a few snide comments around, but Sam can tell it's just for show. The minute he said _it's for Izzy_, Dean's cooperation was sealed.

By the time the sun sets they're all gathered around the fire. Even Craig sports painted nails. It's a sign of respect, of remembrance, and Sam thinks Izzy would laugh at them, but her laughter would hide a secret delight. Sam looks up at the sky, searching for the stars, but they're in hiding. He pictures them with heads bowed, their light put away out of respect for the dead.

ooooo

Dean always thought he and Sam would spend time hauling ass down Old Route 66 one day. He imagined tooling down the antiquated highway, cutting a swath across flattened landscape and run-down clusters of buildings, more ghost than town. Of course, he also imagined they'd be in the Impala listening to Metallica with the windows cranked down at the time.

The last two days have been a steady slog down Interstate 40, past an endless expanse of empty plains beneath an emptier sky. For the first time in months, the air smells fresh.

Their bottled water supply is getting scarce, and Dean's hoping they get to Amarillo before it runs out. He's marking their progress by the number of Ranch Roads that intersect the highway. So far, they've passed seven in the course of their two-day journey. Dean scowls. Apparently, the Texas panhandle was a fucking wasteland even before the world ended.

Sam hasn't said much since they left Izzy behind. He spends most of his time walking by himself, shoulders hunched, head down. Dean's been keeping pace with him, trying to draw him into conversation, but he hasn't been very successful. Every time Dean brings up Izzy, Sam shuts down, radiating a stony silence.

Andy's not much better, but Luke's attached himself to Andy's side, as if he knows his company's needed. Andy's not that much taller than the boy, and they walk together, loss mirrored in both their faces. Craig brings up the rear of their little group, his eyes watchful.

It's true that Dean misses Isobel, but he also misses Claudia, because now they really are walking in the dark, no matter what time of day it is. He's been listening—although he would never admit it—for the sound of whispers or children's voices. But there are none, not even Luke's.

ooooo

"Hi, Sam."

Sam flicks a look at Craig, nods a greeting.

"Seems like we're making pretty good time," Craig comments brightly. He inhales deeply. "Good weather, too." He waves a hand in the air. "Now all we need to do is get rid of these damned flies."

Sam grunts something noncommittal. He doesn't slow his pace. He's got nothing against Craig, but he's not in the mood for conversation.

Craig doesn't seem phased by Sam's lack of response. "It's so weird, you know?" Craig scratches his head with a rueful look. "I used to feel so overwhelmed by life. All the bills. My teaching plans. Grading papers. And now..." he shrugs. "I'd give anything to have that life back."

Sam nods absently. A sign on the side of the highway reads _Interstate 40_, and under that, _Historic Route 66_.

"So Sam, I was wondering…do you think you fulfilled your destiny?"

Craig's question perforates Sam's thoughts. It also elicits a response. "What?"

"Your destiny," Craig repeats. "Dean told me how afraid you were of becoming something different. Or evil. How you thought that was your destiny."

Sam's hands clench into fists. For the first time in weeks, he wishes for the rope inside Dean's bag, and he clasps his hands behind his back, tries to keep his breathing even. His voice is hard and smooth, like stones polished beneath a river current. "It was my destiny."

"And that's where you're mistaken, son."

Sam stops walking. He stares at Craig. "What does that mean?"

Craig puts an arm around Sam's shoulders, encourages him to keep walking. Sam takes another step, lets Craig direct him. "I don't recall talking to you about my destiny, Professor." He nearly spits the last word, and part of him is sorry, but it's a small part, and easily shoved aside. This is not something he wants to talk about. Not with Dean, and especially not with Craig.

Craig smiles again, as if Sam's the friendliest guy in the world. "Of course you didn't," Craig agrees. "But Dean did. After Izzy died."

Sam wants to be pissed at Dean for running his mouth. He wants to be, but he's not.

"My question is, why do you think your destiny was completed the day those Sixers came for you? " Craig's voice is soft, almost tender. "Why don't you think _this_ is what was meant to happen? That everything you've gone through was meant to lead you to this exact place, this exact time?"

Sam tries to swallow, but there's something wrong with his throat, it's too small. His head starts to ache, and he imagines that the pain is emanating from Dean's bullet. He wants to tell Craig to shut up, he wants to walk (_run_) away, but his mouth is silent and his feet betray him by moving forward one step at a time.

"Do you know the story of Saul?" Craig asks.

Sam's eye is on the horizon. He can't look at Craig, can't acknowledge anything Craig says, can't participate in this conversation at all. His chest tightens with something close to dread, and he struggles to croak out, "Stop."

"It's one of my favorite Bible stories," Craig says, breezing past Sam's protest. "Saul was a bad guy. He helped kill people who believed in God. He stoned them, and he made quite a name for himself while he did it. He was a monster." Craig looks at Sam, and Sam doesn't look back, but he can feel the weight of Craig's gaze pressing down on him.

"You could say he was evil," says Craig, "But one day God gets tired of Saul's behavior and sends him a message. He shines a light on Saul and everything he's done. He tells Saul to shape up if he knows what's good for him." Craig's lips curve into a slight smile. "Of course I'm paraphrasing just a bit.

"So Saul does just what God says. He changes. He changes his name to Paul and changes his ways. No more monster, no more evil. He becomes famous throughout the Holy Land for his good works and--"

Sam's tongue feels like stone but he gets it to move. "I don't have scales on my eyes, Professor. I haven't been called by God. I'm pretty sure it's the just the opposite."

Craig snorts. "You wanna keep feeling sorry for yourself, you go ahead and think that."

"I don't feel sorry for myself," Sam hisses and it takes every ounce of his will power to keep from lashing out at Craig. "I feel sorry about what I did."

"And that's my point. Your destiny isn't about being evil, Sam. It isn't hating yourself. It's helping people. Helping Andy and Luke and myself. I think that's your _real_ destiny. And believing anything else, believing anything less is selling yourself short."

Sam wants to scream at Craig to get away from him, to take his religion and absolution away. He can't, though, because there are tears leaking from his eye and he can't see, not just where he's going, but where he's been, what he's supposed to do. Sam yanks his arm away from Craig, but the bastard won't let go, _let go_, and he's trapped.

"You're a good boy," Craig says softly, "I can see it. You and your brother, both."

Sam shakes his head and he stumbles. Craig's still holding on, and Sam starts to shake. His teeth start to chatter. Fuck this. Fuck Craig. "Not everything can be forgiven," he says, the words clicking between his teeth.

Craig squeezes his arm. "Yes, Sam, it can."

ooooo

"What'd he say?"

Sam sighs. "Nothing, Dean."

"Don't give me nothing. I saw the two of you. You were getting all weepy and emo."

"That's because I was thinking about how much time I have left traveling with you."

"Sam." But Dean grins. "You _must_ be feeling better."

"I guess. That professor is a really…" Sam shrugs. "He's a good guy. I'm glad we found him."

"You and me both. And, get this." Dean taps the rumpled map. "We're almost to Amarillo."

"Good. I'm running out of water and—" The words spiral out of his head. Instead, there's nothing but a flash of white, then a few sparks of color. The colors kaleidoscope into a vision of a small encampment.

There are three tents. At least a dozen people milling around, a cat curled up on top of a cooler, asleep. It's twilight. The sky is pink bleeding into purple and there's movement on the highway nearby. Two figures. One is a slender girl with long black hair. She's smiling and her teeth are filed to points. Black leather bracelets ring each wrist and sparks roll across her knuckles. Beside her walks a demon in its pure form, the air bending and wavering from its heat.

The scene shrinks, expands and flickers like an old-fashioned home movie. A sign along the side of the road reads _Tucumcari Historical Museum next right_. The cat springs off the cooler, hissing, its tail a bottle brush. The Sixer brushes a hand against a tent and it erupts into flames. A woman screams, then a man. The demon leans down and picks up a shrieking boy by one leg and throws him onto the concrete. The screams spread like fire.

The colors start to contract and spin away, around and down into a single pinpoint. But the screams are just as loud.

ooooo

Sam sways and drops to the ground, landing hard on his knees. Dean yells out in shock, grabs Sam and holds him upright. He shakes Sam, calls for help. Sam's eye is open and it rolls back and forth, tracking something only he can see. Dean holds Sam's head steady and waits, teeth grinding in frustration. At first, he thinks Sam's going catatonic again, but then he realizes what it is. A vision. It's harder to recognize without Sam clutching his head in pain, but this strange silence unnerves Dean just as much.

Andy's pacing back and forth, hands fisted into his hair. "What's going _on_?" he demands. He looks rumpled and tired, as if he spent the past two nights sleeping under a car. Dean's pretty sure the guy hasn't had more than five hours sleep since Izzy died, and his veneer of calm is just about scraped away. He squats down and shakes Sam's arm. "Sam. Sam?"

Dean brushes Andy away. He feels sorry for Andy, and he sure as hell understands his worry, but nobody's shaking Sam (except maybe Dean). "Knock it off. I think he's having a vision."

Craig pulls out his water bottle and hands it to Dean. "Is he all right?" Luke hangs back, all eyes.

Sam twitches and suddenly bolts forward, arms flailing, and lands on his hands and knees. Dean just barely avoids getting clocked in the jaw by Sam's head. He uncaps Craig's water bottle and holds it out. "Sammy? You okay?"

Sam blinks and gives his head a hard shake, as if he's trying to rattle something loose, dislodge a memory. Sam reaches for the water bottle, and drinks. He coughs, drinks again. He hands the bottle back to Dean and lets himself drop backward onto his ass, pulls his knees up and scrubs hard at his face, his eye.

Andy pulls one hand out of his hair to chew at a cuticle. "Was it one of your death-vision things?"

Craig takes his bottle back and puts an arm around Luke. "You okay, Sam?"

Sam shakes his head again. Hair falls in his face and he pushes it roughly away. "I saw another camp." His voice is thin and flat, like paper. Dean can almost hear it tear. "Near Tusca—no, Tucumcari, New Mexico. There's a demon and a Sixer. I saw at least ten people there." Sam lifts his head and turns to Dean. "They're all going to die if we don't help them."

Dean inhales deeply through his nose and stands. Okay then. As if there's not enough pressure already. He brushes off his jeans and offers a hand to Sam. "Then I guess we better get going." He pulls Sam up and hands him his backpack. Sam's hand feels clammy, and there's a sheen of sweat on his face. What he really wants is to tell Sam to take it easy, to rest, to goddamn eat something, but he knows Sam won't listen, won't give his own welfare the time of day when he's had a vision. He's in full-on freak-out savior mode, and there's no stopping him now. Dean walks beside him, cursing the fact that the bullet in Sam's head didn't kill the visions once and for all.

They haven't even gone a hundred feet when Sam says, "There's something else." He avoids Dean's gaze. "I know the Sixer. Her name is…is April."

Dean studies the road, works at keeping his voice casual. "How do you know her?" He can guess, but he needs to hear it from Sam.

Sam's shoulders hunch. "I used to. I. Before. We, uh, traveled together. I traveled with Jason the most. But her too." He ducks his head, but not before Dean gets a glimpse of his eyes. They look like twin bruises.

Maybe the fact that Sam knows her gives them an advantage. "So you have an idea of what she can do? How to stop her?"

Sam nods. He's still looking down, and he stumbles. Dean puts a hand out to steady him, but Sam jerks away. He goes down hard on one knee, pushes himself back up. There's a fresh hole in the knee of Sam's jeans, a smear of blood and gravel on his skin. Dean stares. "Dude. What's wrong? What aren't you telling me?"

Sam beats a fist against his thigh, once, twice. "Dean. She was there." His fist connects a third time. "She was there that day. I didn't remember. I didn't realize. Not until the vision."

Dean feels the frustration building, but it's no match against the worry. Sam is one tic away from breaking down. He touches Sam's arm, stops his pounding. He asks gently, "What day?"

"When Sarah died. When I went. When I. You know." His eye slides between Dean and the ground back to Dean. "You _know_."

Andy crosses his arms, hugs himself. "Wait. Just wait a minute. Does she have, like, some kind of electricity thing with her hands?"

Dean tries to catch Sam's eye but Sam won't even look in his direction. Sam's hands start to shake and he hooks them into his back pockets. "Yeah."

Andy stares at Sam. He opens his mouth, closes it. Hugs himself tighter. "Her teeth."

Sam looks up sharply at this. "What?"

Andy unwraps his arms and starts pacing. "There was something weird about her teeth. They were, like, sharp. Pointed."

Sam holds Andy's gaze for another beat, then turns and starts walking. "She had her teeth filed. She thought it made her look cool."

Dean wants to make a joke, something about a dentist or some shit, until he sees the look on Sam's face.

Sam's expression is a dark mix of disgust, rage, and regret. "I killed people with her," Sam grits out. "I did that. And now it's on me to stop her." His shoulders straighten, his head comes up, and he quickens his pace. "She's not going to kill those people, Dean. She's not going to kill anyone."

Dean hurries to catch up. He catches another glimpse of Sam's face and has to stop himself from flinching. If looks could kill, Dean figures April wouldn't stand a chance.


	8. Chapter 8

thank you for all the wonderful reviews! i'm sorry for the long delay between chapters. the next few chapters should come quicker. (i hope!)

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Dean read somewhere that Amarillo used to be called the Yellow Rose of Texas. Standing outside a gutted Winn-Dixie supermarket, Dean figures the rose is dead. There are a few bodies lying amidst the ashes of a crumpled Landry's Seafood House across the street. Craig blocks Luke's view of the charred remains and they end up inside a Super Target. The store's been looted and it reeks of what Dean hopes are spoiled groceries. Sam and Dean make their way inside and come back out toting water bottles, candy bars and socks. Dean wants to stay longer, but Sam's gaze keeps flicking back toward the highway. He never says _hurry up_, doesn't push anyone to go faster, but the way Sam bites his lower lip bloody is louder than a shout.

An old Chevy Malibu sits abandoned at the base of the on-ramp to I-80. There's a rusty trail of blood leading from the backseat to a discarded child's car seat lying on the grass. A lonely rattle in the shape of a smiling dog lies inside the seat. The whole scene makes Dean think of the road outside Rivergrove.

"Hold on a sec," Dean says, and opens the driver's side door. The keys are still in the ignition, and a faint _bing bing bing_ chimes out at them. Dean knows enough not to hope, but still, the keys are _right there_, and the battery works, so he might as well see if it'll start. Sam walks around to the passenger side and pulls the door open. He looks in at Dean and nods. _Go ahead_. One hand on the steering wheel, the other on the key, and a wave of deja vu sweeps over him. He feels a momentary pang for his departed Impala. He shakes his head, wonders if he and Sam can drive down Route 66 after all. "Here goes nothing," Dean mutters and turns the key.

The engine sputters, coughs. Dean grips the wheel tighter, his palms slick with sweat. _Come on, come on_, he thinks, and it's as close to a prayer as he's going to get. The car coughs again, the engine squeals in protest. And then it turns over and roars to life. The car thrums beneath Dean and he thinks _holy shit_. Sam grins and pats the roof of the car. "All right!" He folds himself into the passenger seat with a grunt and Dean thinks it's the best sound he's heard in forever.

There's over half a tank of gas. Dean feels like a fucking king. Andy slides into the backseat and Craig climbs in behind Dean. He motions for Luke to follow but the boy doesn't move. He stands motionless on the edge of the concrete, staring. Craig leans forward and peers out at the boy. "Luke? Come on, kiddo."

Luke takes a step backward, eyes squeezed shut. He makes a high-pitched noise of protest and shakes his head rapidly back and forth. Sam and Craig exit the car immediately, worry etched across their faces. Dean drops his head onto the steering wheel. He recalls Craig's story about how Luke and his mother had been trapped in a car. No wonder the boy is afraid. He lifts his head and watches Sam kneel in front of Luke.

"I know you're afraid," Sam says, his voice gentle. "And that's okay. I'm afraid too. But my brother keeps me safe." Sam puts a hand on each of Luke's shoulders. "And we're going to keep you safe." Luke opens his eyes, tears leaking freely down his face. He blinks at Sam, wipes his nose.

At Sam's words, Dean's chest feels too tight for his ribs. He discovers he's smiling and he feels guilty because Luke is freaking out and things are shitty, but he can't help it. _My brother keeps me safe_. He scratches his forehead, rubs his chin.

"I had a vision of some people who might get hurt by a demon. Like you and your mom," Sam continues. "And I think we can help them. But not if we get there too late." He reaches for Luke's hand. "I can't promise that I can always keep you safe. But I can promise I'll do everything in my power to try, Luke. Everything. We all will."

Dean doesn't like the direction Sam's conversation is going . He wants to pick Luke up and stuff him in the backseat next to Andy. Dean's eyes flick to the rearview mirror. Andy's watching the scene unfold through the window, nervously chewing on the side of his thumb.

"Please Luke," Craig says. "Do you think you can help save those people?"

Luke shivers slightly, looking from Sam to Dean. He nods, hesitant at first, then more self-assured. Still holding Sam's hand, he walks slowly to the car, sneakers dragging. But he gets in. He wipes his face on the hem of his shirt and leans against Craig's shoulder.

Dean grips the steering wheel until his fingers ache. Luke shouldn't have to be afraid to get in a car. Sam shouldn't have to look like he's dying inside. Izzy shouldn't be dead. But he can't change any of it. All he can do is drive. So he puts his foot down on the gas.

ooooo

Dean won't go faster than thirty-five miles an hour. If this weren't the end of the world, if he wasn't in a car where bloody fingerprints form grim constellations on the dashboard, Sam might say something. But it's not safe to go faster. Abandoned cars loom periodically. Some look new, some are missing doors, some are nothing but steel frames and an engine block. But all of them are empty. A mile outside of Amarillo they pass a huge hole on the side of the road. Sam squints out the window, forehead pressed to the glass. He sees the single wooden cross propped against the pile of dirt. A mass grave. Dean's concentrating on not hitting the twisted skeleton of a motorcycle and Sam doesn't say a word.

His head is pounding and it feels like his intestines are being crushed. The pressure in his skull is building, he half expects brain fluid to start leaking from his ruined eye socket, or maybe his ears. He leans forward, elbows on knees, and cradles his head.

He can still hear April's voice. _The Commander likes you best_, she says, her head cocked to one side. She's like a cat, sleek and feral. _I think I do too_. She slips a hand into the front pocket of his jeans, pulls him closer.

Sam's eyes squeeze shut and he struggles to push the memory away. It's made of lead and won't go. It sits heavy in his gut, mocking him, the feel of her hands on his chest, her tongue, her teeth needling his skin. When he feels a hand on his shoulder he nearly flattens himself against the door. Dean's watching him, face full of concern. "What's wrong?"

Sam tries to smile, but it feels wrong and broken so he ducks his head. "Nothing. I'm just…" he struggles for the right word. Sick. Broken. Tired. So fucking tired. But this isn't the time for truth. It never is. He shrugs. "I'm just worried about getting there on time, you know? I want to save them." The last part is true at least.

Dean turns his gaze back to the road, but leaves his hand on Sam. He nods. "We all do, Sam."

Sam knows Dean doesn't believe him. He can read Dean just as well as Dean can read him, but they both let it go. This isn't the time to admit fear. Not when everyone else in the car is just as scared. Sam's eyes flick back to the rearview mirror. Luke is watching him. Sam winks at the boy. He smiles again, and this time he almost means it.

ooooo

They're getting close now. Sam can tell. Not because of the finger of distant smoke, or the road sign announcing Tucumcari is five miles away. Not because of the crushing silence in the car or the way the gas needle sinks lower. Not because of the way shadows press dark hands against the landscape. He knows they're getting closer because of the pounding in his head, from the liquid fear in his belly. Each drum beat of pain through his skull feels (_sounds_) like _too late_. He keeps his gaze out the window, because he can't risk Dean seeing his face. If Dean sees him he might break, the careful facade of control, strength, _together_ will splinter and crack and he'll bleed guilt and terror all over the car. One hand grips the car handle tight enough to make his knuckles ache, the other rubs at the base of his neck, fruitlessly trying to ease the tension knotted just below the skin.

And then, the tension is gone. Just like that. He can breathe. His head is quiet. His stomach unclenches. Because the finger of smoke is no longer a finger, it's an arm and the screams aren't just in his mind, they're whistling up into the sky, ricocheting off the car, yanking his car door open. The car is still moving and Dean is screaming at him--_what the fuck? Sam! Sam, no wait just wait what are you_–and his feet hit pavement and he's running. Adrenaline speeds him across the macadam and into the camp.

There's a squeal of tires and the sound of doors opening and more feet running. "Sam!" This time it's Andy's voice but there's no time to answer because there's a square of tent right there and fire and screams. He's always running (_out of time_) away, but this time he's running toward. This time he'll save lives instead of end them. The sound of gun safeties clicking off and muttered Latin threads its way into his brain, and it brings him comfort. It's a familiar sound, the sound of his childhood, the sound of his life, the sound of Dean. It's funny how a sound that used to make him sick with resentment now sounds like home.

Sam can see the whole encampment. Time finally stops, waits, and holds him in one still palm. It's twilight. The sky is pink bleeding into purple and Sam sees the two figures amongst the chaos. One is a slender girl with long black hair. She's smiling and her teeth are filed to points. Black leather bracelets ring each wrist and sparks roll across her knuckles. Beside her walks a demon in its pure form, the air bending and wavering from its heat.

A girl with blond hair crawls out of burning tent, her leg bleeding, desperately pulling a glassy-eyed man by the hem of his shirt. The demon holds a woman by the neck, shaking her like a broken doll. A black woman points a sawed-off shotgun at the demon and aims, one eye squeezed shut. April reaches toward a balding man, her hands sparking blue death.

A hand encircles Sam's wrist. He doesn't turn his head because he knows its Andy. A shoulder bumps into him on his right, and it's Dean. Sam breathes in, breathes out. And then he shouts, his voice arching up and over the surrounding tumult: "Stop."

Time restarts. He can feel the heat of the fire, smell the stink of burnt flesh and fear. April turns away from the terrified man and scans the faces until her eyes find Sam. Her face glows in the orange light. "I thought you'd never get here," she says, and smiles.

ooooo

They stare at each other. April is still smiling. Sam is impassive. Dean wishes Sam would hurry up and work his magic mojo because that bitch gives him the fucking creeps. His finger is itching to pull the trigger. Craig is half way through the exorcism and Luke stands guard next to the professor, a white-knuckled grip on his baseball bat. The demon growls and with a speed Dean can't fathom, throws the woman he's holding onto the ground and plucks a boy from inside a tent. The demon lifts the boy high over his head. The boy shrieks endlessly, arms flailing and Dean adjusts his aim and shoots the demon. The bullet does nothing more than knock the demon back two steps; it's still gripping the boy and his panicked screams spiral higher, into animalistic cries.

The woman with the sawed-off shotgun darts past April and blasts the demon. "Put him down you fucking piece of shit," she calls, "put him down or I'll kill you."

The demon's face twists and Dean can see the semblance of a smile. It lifts the boy above its glowing head and–

"_Stop_." This time Andy's voice rises on the wind and the demon hesitates.

ooooo

Sam lifts an arm and the boy is pulled from the demon's grip, still shrieking. The black woman drops the shotgun and lunges for the boy. They both tumble to the ground, shaken but intact. April claps her hands, a wide smile on her face. Her teeth are white nails. "Very nice," she tells Sam. "Impressive. You've got a sexy pirate look going on."

Sam doesn't react; he's concentrating on holding the demon back. He can hear Craig cycling through the ring of Latin words, it's almost over. He counts down in his head, _ten nine eight_. Dean shifts beside him, all nervous energy. _Seven six five_. Andy's fingers grip his wrist tighter, he can feel (_taste_) Andy's fear.

Craig shouts the last syllable.

The demon flinches.

. 

It screams, and then it's gone, bursting into flames and then nothing. A nearby tent catches fire, and the air around them seems to boil, he's breathing liquid heat.

April steps toward them. "Are you done with the special effects? Is it my turn now?" Her tongue flicks out over her bottom lip. "I seem to remember you liked the things I did."

Sam shakes his head. "You don't have to do this."

She laughs. "Do what? Be myself? You'd rather I turned back into a piece of shit nothing like you?" The laughter dies and her face goes hard. "You were his favorite, Sam. His _favorite_. And you threw that away. For what?" She gestures toward Dean. "For him? For a few humans? Their bones break like sticks. It's like holding onto dust." She lifts a hand toward him, beseeching. "Wipe the dust from your fingers and come back to us. We're waiting. _He's_ waiting."

"I'm human," Sam says. "So are you. Does that make you dust too?"

April shakes her head, impatient. "We're more. We're the chosen ones." Her hands spark. "Is this human?"

"Yes," Sam insists. "We're not demons. We might be special, but we're just people, April. That's all. Humanity is what matters," he says, his voice like ash. "What happened to yours?"

April laughs derisively. "Really, Samuel. Do you hear yourself? It's embarrassing." She flexes her knuckles and electricity crackles. "I'm going to like killing you." Her eyes narrow and she spits at him. "Traitor."

Sam nods and Dean takes the signal. He aims for April's eye and squeezes the trigger. And April sidesteps. Dean emits a low growl. "How'd the fuck she do that?" he demands.

"Get on the ground," Andy shouts at her.

April glares at Dean for a long moment. "You're not as good as you think you are." Her voice is soft, but it carries over the crackling flames.

"And you talk too much," Dean says. "Oh, and a word of advice. You have _got_ to see a dentist. Those teeth are _fugly_."

April turns her glare on Andy. Slowly, she rearranges her face into a smile. "Andrew. Long time no see."

"Get on the ground," Andy thunders, steel in his voice.

April rolls her eyes. "Why don't you," she retorts. The movement is a flash and before Sam's eyes can register what's happening, Andy lets go of his wrist and he's falling backwards, a knife protruding from his chest.

April laughs. She moves (_dances_) to the cowering man and touches his forehead. Electricity sparks across his skin, into his eyes and through his wispy gray hair. He shrieks and convulses, dead before he hits the ground.

Sam screams. He can feel the pressure in his throat, feel the ache in his head, but he can't hear it. All he hears is the sound of Dean's voice yelling at Andy—_it's gonna be okay, look at me, Andy, look at me_. The dead man watches him dispassionately from the ground, his eyes gone cloudy. April might have killed him, but it's Sam's fault. He should have been here sooner. How many others are dead? There's a body beside the third tent. A woman lies on a torn sleeping bag, one pale hand outstretched, palm up, fingers curled. A water lily floating across blue nylon.

"I can help you," Sam tells April.

"I don't need your help," April spits. She throws another knife and Sam's hand shoots out to ward it off. The knife clatters harmlessly against a crushed aluminum chair. She stares at Sam, eyes narrowed. "How did you do that?"

"Let me help you," Sam repeats.

April shakes her head. "I have power, now," she says. "I don't need your help. I'm in control."

"Not as long as you do what he says."

"He's the Commander. _Your_ Commander," April hisses.

"He's not, April," Sam tells her. "He's a demon. He's nothing. I'm going to destroy him."

April scowls and throws another knife. This time Sam catches it. He doesn't have time to wonder how he did it, doesn't care how he did it. All he knows is that the knife handle is in his hand. He looks at it, then at April. "You can't hurt me," he tells her. "Please. Let me help you."

A three-legged cat runs past them, ears pressed flat against its head, hissing. Sam can hear the little boy crying nearby and whispered words of comfort from the black woman. He can hear Andy screaming in pain, but he can't concentrate on any of it because April's running straight at him, hands outstretched, mouth stretched into a snarl.

ooooo

Andy's fingers scrabble at the knife hilt. "Oh God get it out, get it out," he begs, hysteria spilling through the edges of each word. Dean grimaces. He's not looking forward to pulling it out.

"Take it out," Craig says, "I'll apply pressure." He smiles at Andy. "You'll be okay, son."

Andy watches Craig with leaking eyes. "If I die, maybe I'll see her." A tear spills down his face. He reaches for Dean's sleeve. "I want to see her, Dean. I want Izzy."

Dean swallows, stomps down the fear as best he can, but it's bitter and constant and it goes down harder each time. "You're not going anywhere, Andy. You're stuck with us. So just shut up and breathe, okay?" Dean wraps his hand around the hilt and exhales loudly. "Here we go," he says, and pulls. Andy screams, eyes streaming and Craig presses hard on the wound.

"It fucking _hurts_," Andy grits.

The good news is Andy's breathing seems okay. The wound looks bad, but Craig's pressure keeps the bleeding under control. Dean risks a quick look behind Craig. That's when he sees Luke's baseball lying abandoned on the ground. Luke is gone.

ooooo

Sam can hear the girl crying. Between sobs she pleads with her father to open his eyes. He can also hear Dean yelling at April,

The sound of a rifle reloading and a woman's voice,

April launches herself at him and they both hit the ground hard. Her hands grip his head and he can hear the hum of her power, smell the smoke as it wafts off his hair. But there's no pain. Sam feels as if he's vibrating, as if the world is trying to throw him off, pry him loose and send him hurtling into space. He automatically grabs for April and holds on, one hand on each side of her face. "Let me help you." He can't tell if the words are inside his head or out.

"You're nothing," April screams. "Did you really think you'd get to New Mexico? Do you think the Commander doesn't know what you're doing? He's going to kill everyone there. You're too late."

Sam closes his eyes and tries to ignore the buzzing in his ears. Behind his eyes. "It's going to be okay." He can sense the switch in her head. Not a door, but a window. He reaches out with his mind and slams the window shut, locks it. The sparks on his skin go out.

April's eyes lock onto his. All the fury goes out of her face. She snaps her teeth together with an audible click. She blinks and goes still. Sam rolls onto his knees warily. He pats at his face, his hair. His skin feels dry and sunburned. His hair feels singed, it's still smoking. "April?"

ooooo

Dean yanks the shotgun from the woman's hands and tosses it away.

"What the fuck did you do that for?" she yells. "I had a clean shot!"

"Maybe you did and maybe you didn't," Dean grates back, "but I'm not risking my brother's life on your aim."

"It looks to me like your brother is a fucking Sixer!" she shrieks and aims a punch at Dean's shoulder.

Dean sidesteps and grabs her arms, presses them hard against her body. "My brother is saving our lives," he hisses. "Maybe you could say thank you _without_ a bullet." Dean lowers his face next to hers. "Not all Sixers are psychopaths working with the demons." He lets her go. "You remember that."

The woman staggers backward, staring. "What?"

"Dean!"

Dean turns to see Sam on his knees. His hair looks like shit but that's nothing new. His face is red and peeling in a few spots, but he's in one piece. And April's just lying there. _Thank God_. Dean claps a hand on his brother's shoulder. "You did it, Sammy!"

Sam's shoulders hunch and he looks down at April.

"Where's Luke?" Craig calls. "I can't find Luke!"

Dean spins in a slow circle, checking the ruined tents and detritus spread across the camp. "Luke!" Dean yells. There's no answer. He tries again, heart beating faster. "Luke!"

"Over here," says a soft voice. A blond girl walks toward him, supporting Luke. The left leg of the boy's jeans is stained with blood.

ooooo

April's eyes flutter open and Sam thinks of butterflies. Once he and Jess had a picnic in a park near Stanford and there had been Monarch butterflies. The flowers had been alive with them. He and Jess had lain on their backs watching the butterflies dance beneath lazy clouds. Sam's heart stutters and he feels a pain so deep he can't (_doesn't want to_) breathe. He wants that day back. He wants those butterflies. He wants to feel Jessica's hand in his. But that day, that life is gone. Instead he's surrounded by (_brings_) death. April's face looks different now. She looks older, broken, her eyes jitter in their sockets.

Sam remembers the feel of linoleum against his back after Dean shot him. He remembers Dean holding him while he screamed. He can remember the heat of the bullet, and the knowledge of everything he had done closing in. He remembers the crushing disappointment that the bullet didn't kill him. Now, he grabs April's hand and holds it. He squeezes. "It'll be okay," he says.

April's chest heaves and Sam realizes she's laughing. She chokes and rolls onto her side. "Okay?" she gasps. "Nothing…is…okay. Nothing will…ever be okay."

Sam brushes black cobwebs of hair from her face. "I'll help you," he says. It's a promise.

The choked laughter dies away and April's voice drops to a whisper. "You should have killed me," she says. "I should be dead." Her voice becomes a wail. "The things I've done. Oh my God. Oh shit, Sam. I can't. No. _No_."

He'll help her. He will. If he can get over what he's done, so can she. It's a lie, he's not over it, he's still under it, buried, but he's trying and surely that counts for something. And if he can try, so can she. If she can help them fight, if she can stand beside him and Andy, it will all be worth it.

"You can make up for what you did," he tells her.

April closes her eyes. "It's too late."

"It's never too late," Sam insists. He grips her hand harder. "April. Really. I'll help you. Me and Andy both." He's not really sure about Andy, but he needs to convince her there's hope, that she can get through this. She _can_.

April pulls her hand free and covers her face. "It's too late," she repeats, her voice muffled from behind her hands. Her fingernails are painted black and it makes him think of Isobel. He's still looking at her fingers when the sparks begin to dance across her skin.

ooooo

Dean picks up Luke and carries him over to Craig in a few quick steps. The woman with the sawed-off shotgun follows. Her coffee-colored skin shines with sweat; her dark hair is swept up in a loose ponytail. "Watch out," she says, "I can help. I'm good at stitches."

Dean gives her a look. "Are you a doctor?"

She gives him a rueful look. "I'm a vet."

"He's not a dog," Dean snaps.

The woman's lip curls. "No, but you're a jackass."

Dean's eyebrows shoot up and he chuckles in spite of himself. "Huh. That was pretty good," he concedes. He holds out a hand. "My name's Dean."

The woman takes it and her grip is firm. "I'm Vanessa. Nessa for short." She points to the little tow-headed boy shadowing her. "This is Owen."

Dean offers the boy a quick smile, then turns to Luke. "You okay buddy?" Luke nods, but his face is pinched. Dean notices the slender blond girl is still holding Luke's hand. "What happened?"

The girl is a good head taller than Luke, and very thin. She'll all elbows, knees and neck. Her blond hair is dark and oily and twisted into two braids. She's wearing wire- rim glasses that look too big for her face. "I was running from the demon—trying to get my dad away, you know? And I tripped and I think I blacked out or something because the next thing I know, he—" she nods toward Luke, "—was helping me up but his leg was bleeding and I didn't know what to do, you know?" Her eyes dart from face to face, never settling on anyone long enough for eye contact.

"Julie, where's your dad?" Nessa asks, peering through the semi-darkness. "Is he okay?"

"He's sitting with Tripod waiting for my mom."

Dean has no idea what the girl's dad is doing with a tripod, but it's not worth asking about because Andy needs help. "Nessa? I need you to take a look at my friend Andy. That bitch stabbed him."

Nessa doesn't hesitate. "Show me," she demands, and Dean brings her to Andy. Craig's still with him, but it's clear he's anxious about Luke.

"Luke's fine, he just needs some stitches," Dean tells him. "Can you clean his wound? That kid, Julie can help you. I need to light a fire and pour a salt circle."

"What's a salt circle?" Nessa asks.

"Are you kidding? It's—" Sam's anguished cry freezes the words in Dean's throat.

One of the tents is still smoldering and there's enough light to make out the two figures on the ground. He can smell burning hair and something else, something worse. _Shit_. "Sam!" he cries. "Answer me!" Dean stumbles to an abrupt stop when he reaches them. Sam's holding one of April's hands between his own and April's face is wreathed in smoke. He can just make out blisters and ruined skin and her eyes are—

Dean spins away and tries hard not to vomit. He plants a hand on each thigh and focuses on two things: his boots and breathing.

"I couldn't save her," Sam whispers. "I tried. I told her I could help her and she…she…" his words trail off into a choking sound.

Dean squats next to him. "You stopped her, Sam. You saved lives. And you tried to save her. That's what matters."

Sam shakes his head. "I couldn't save her," Sam repeats. "I didn't. I. Why does this keep happening?"

"Sammy. Listen to me. You did save people. There's a girl and a little boy and a vet and an older guy here. That's four people."

Sam shrugs Dean's arm off. "And how many are dead? April. At least two more. We don't even know."

"Come on, don't do this. April made her decision. You tried to stop her, Sam, you did. And that's all you can do. "

Sam turns away. "How's Andy? Is he okay?"

"I think so. The knife didn't hit his lungs, and there's a…doctor working on him right now. You know Andy, he's a tougher than he looks. He'll be back on his feet before you know it. He's probably dreaming of a giant bong right now."

Sam doesn't answer. He's looking at his hands and it takes Dean a minute to figure out why. His palms are wet with April's blood. "I'm tired, Dean," he says. "I'm so tired."

"I know," Dean says. He sinks onto the grass beside Sam. He wants to say something to make this better. To make Sam better. But there are no words like that left and he's sick of lying. So he tells the truth. "So am I."

ooooo

Dean spends the next half hour trying to coax a conversation out of Sam. But Sam won't budge, physically or verbally. Dean can practically see him pulling the silence around him like a blanket. By the time Dean's leg falls asleep he's had enough. "I'll be back," Dean promises and shakes his leg, trying to get rid of the pins and needles. Sam doesn't respond and Dean rubs at his forehead, defeated.

By the time he has a decent fire built and gets Craig to help him make the salt circle, Andy's stitched up and sleeping. Nessa confirms he'll be okay and relief slams through him like a ten-foot wave. Thank God. Luke's leg is bandaged and Julie informs him he had seven stitches. Luke acts like he just won the gold medal for cool.

Nessa and Julie share their supply of trail mix and overripe bananas. Craig throws in some granola bars and potato chips. Dean walks the camp perimeter while the others eat. Sam is still hunched by April, but he tries to console himself with the fact that Sam isn't trying to hurt himself. Or comatose.

He's nibbling on a handful of trail mix when Nessa walks over. "Hey. I never really thanked you for…everything. So. Thank you. We'd probably all be dead if you guys hadn't shown up."

"You're welcome," Dean responds. "I'm sorry we couldn't do more." There are three bodies laid out beyond the furthest tent. Owen's sister and an older married couple.

Nessa watches Dean carefully for a long moment. Then she says, "I've never seen a Sixer help someone before."

Dean shrugs. "Now you have."

"You said he's…your brother?"

"My little brother. And I trust him with my life." He returns her gaze coolly. "And yours."

Nessa nods. "Okay then. It just takes some getting used to, that's all."

Dean's laughter is harsh. "This whole world takes some getting used to."

Nessa sighs. "You got that right."

The group is huddled around the fire. Andy's sleeping form is at the outer edge, then Luke and Craig. Julie's sitting between Craig and a man in his mid to late thirties. He's got thick brown hair and Dean is shocked to see it's in worse shape than Sam's. He's holding a black cat in his lap and Dean can see it's only got three legs. Ah. So that's Tripod. The little boy, Owen, is curled on top of a blanket near Julie's feet.

"Who's that next to Julie?" Dean asks.

"Her dad. David. He's not…he's not quite right. His wife died in the Twin Cities fires. Sometimes he remembers she's dead, sometimes he spends hours calling for her. It's really hard on Julie."

"What about Owen? His sister is one of the dead?"

Nessa nods. "She was in college. She left when she couldn't get in touch with her folks. She found Owen in the house alone, hiding in a closet. She has…had no idea what happened to her parents. We all figured it was the disease." Nessa's voice grows hushed. "I can't believe she's really gone." She swipes a hand across her eyes. "What about you?"

"It's just me and Sam. We hooked up with a professor and the kid he looks out for. And there's our friend Andy, he's the one you fixed up. Thank you for that. And I might as well tell you now, he's a Sixer too." Off her look he continues, "He and Sam help protect us. And now we'll protect you."

"Jesus," she hisses, stunned. "Who are you people?"

Dean grins and his teeth shine bright in the moonlight. "We're the good guys."

ooooo

Sam is still by that girl. He's been there a long time. Craig is pretending that he's not looking at Sam, but he is. Luke can tell when people are pretending. Grown ups do a lot of pretending. But then, so does he.

His leg hurts. Once, when he was little he burned himself on a match. Mom got really mad. He was trying to help light the birthday candles and she yelled at him so hard he cried. But that was a long time ago. Back when he had birthdays. And his mom. Now his leg burns just like his finger did.

He wants Sam to come by the fire. Everybody else is lying down. Almost everybody, anyway. Dean isn't, but that's because he's standing guard. Part of him feels like crying, and he doesn't know why. He can't believe he was so scared to get in the car. The morning feels far away, like it happened to somebody else. Getting in the car had been scary, but the fight at the camp had been terrifying. When he was trying to help Julie, he'd said a lot of bad words inside his head. And he also prayed. He hoped God only listened to the prayer part and not the swears.

His eyes flick to Andy's chest and he watches it rise and fall. Andy's snoring softly and that makes him feel good. Craig told him a bunch of times that Andy's going to be okay. He's pretty sure Craig wasn't pretending about that. Luke twists in his sleeping bag and looks at Julie. He likes her. She's nice. Something's wrong with her dad and he feels bad about that. He wonders what it would be like if his mom was still alive but broken like Julie's dad. He bites his lip, considering. He decides he'd be happy if his mom was alive no matter what her mind or brain or whatever else was like. Even if she was sad all the time, at least she could still hold his hand. At least he could hug her. Now all he has is Craig and Andy and Sam and Dean. They're not his mom, not even close. But they try. He can tell. And even though it makes him sad, it sort of makes him happy too. It seems like he can't just feel one thing at a time anymore.

He stretches and checks to make sure Craig is sleeping. He pokes Craig in the arm but the man doesn't move. Carefully, he gets up and slips out of the salt circle. He doesn't get far before Dean's voice floats over to him. "What are you doing? Do you need to take a leak?"

Luke walks over, hands jammed in his sweatshirt pockets. He shakes his head. He points at himself, then at Sam.

Dean frowns. "Okay, look. It's real nice you want to check on Sam, but he's not…he's not in a real talkative mood right now."

The boy lifts an eyebrow. He could care less if Sam wants to talk. It's not like he's a motor mouth.

Dean sees his mistake and chuckles. "Okay, fine. I see your point. But Sam's sitting by April and she's…" Dean shuts his mouth. The boy can feel the pretend radiating off Dean. He shrugs, tries to let Dean know that he doesn't care about the dead lady. He didn't know her. Besides, she was a bad person. She killed people. She was the bad kind of Sixer. He figures that's why Sam is sad. Because he met a Sixer who didn't want to be good like him. And now, just like he was afraid of getting in the car, Sam is afraid to leave the lady.

Dean's talking. He's acting all nice and smiley but it's obvious he wants him to go away, to go back by the fire and leave Sam alone. The boy thinks of a word he's heard Andy say plenty of times: _bullshit_.

ooooo

Sam looks up at the sky and sees a handful of faint stars. He remembers a conversation he had months (_years_) ago with Izzy about a construction paper sky and scissors. He looks back down at April and blows out a shaky sigh.

He hadn't realized how badly he wanted (_needed_) to save her until she died. He had wanted to save them all. Four people dead because of him. Dean told him none of it was his fault, if he wanted to blame someone for the deaths, blame April. Blame the demon. Sam understands what Dean's saying, but it doesn't help. The demon might have physically killed but the blame is still Sam's.

He tries to work through the mysterious calculations in his head: Add the colums of regret and guilt and subtract love. Multiply shame. They refuse to make sense. That's when he feels the small hand take his. Sam looks at the hand and it's attached to Luke. Luke's watching him from beneath his fringe of dark hair, his eyes as big as the moon.

Sam's first instinct is to flinch away. He wants to tell the boy to leave. He wants to scream, to run. But he does none of those things. Instead, he lets Luke squeeze his hand and tries to smile. His lips don't cooperate, but Luke gets the gist because he nods. "Luke, I'm sorry," he croaks. "I'm sorry I made you get in the car this morning." The boy takes a step back and gently pulls Sam's arm, an invitation to stand. To come inside the salt circle. Sam swallows and pushes himself unsteadily to his feet. "I'm sorry," he whispers. This time his apology is for April. Luke pulls again, a little harder this time. _Come on. It's okay_. Same takes a tentative step. His legs are cramped from kneeling so long but they hold his weight.

Dean is right there, waiting for him. Sam knows instinctively that Dean's been watching their exchange. His face is tight with emotion and he nods too, echoing Luke. Sam inhales, lets himself stand at his full height. Dean walks over and he nudges Sam forward with his shoulder. "You did good today," he says. "And if you can't see that, if you don't realize that, then dude? You're just plain _wrong_." Dean gives him a sideways glance. "As usual."

Sam's eyes narrow but he huffs out a weak chuckle. "You wish."

Luke stops and points at both of them, then twirls a finger by his ear while rolling his eyes.

Now Sam's laugh is genuine. "Oh, really?"

Luke grins, nodding.

"I'm crazy all right," Dean agrees, tapping the side of his head. "Like a_ fox_."

Luke snorts out a gust of laughter and claps a hand over his mouth. His smile is too big to hide behind his hand.

"Dude," Dean says, sounding aggrieved. "It's not that funny."

"Like a fox," Sam scoffs. "I think you mean 'like a loon'."

Luke mimes slapping something off his arm and then scratches an imaginary itch. He wiggles his eyebrows at Sam.

Sam snaps his fingers and hugs Luke. "That's _right_. Crazy as a bedbug."

Dean scowls. "You guys both suck," he grumps, but his voice is light. Sam pretends not to notice the wink he gives Luke.

ooooo

Dean wakes up to find Nessa and Craig have already buried the bodies. Most everyone is packed up and within a half hour they're ready to move on. The car has two melted tires and no spare. Dean's pissed, but there's nothing he can do about it. Andy's in pain and the thought of making him walk isn't particularly appealing but Andy insists he's up for it. There's no specific conversation inviting Nessa's group to travel with Dean or Dean's group with Nessa's. They don't need to. Everyone knows there's safety in numbers. So they head off down the road.

"You're on your way to T or C?" Nessa asks Dean.

He nods. "You too, huh?"

"I have no idea where else to go at this point. We saw one of those spray painted signs back in Missouri, and figured it was just as good as anywhere else." She pauses. "Hopefully better."

Dean nods. "It will be."

The walk is slow. They make lousy time because Owen's little and Andy's hurting. Eventually Sam carries the little boy and Craig puts an arm around Andy's shoulders. The support seems to help.

They've been walking for more than an hour when Dean hears the noise. A faint buzzing in the distance. He and Sam exchange glances. Without a word they quicken their pace until they're both in the lead.

"What's that noise?" Julie asks. She's walking with her father, holding his hand. Dean has the impression she's holding David's hand to keep track of him, not for her own comfort. Tripod is cradled in the crook of her other arm. His head rests on Julie's shoulder and despite the cat's bedraggled appearance, he still manages to look regal. David peers around, blinking behind his glasses. The black plastic frames are broken and a length of tape holds them together. "I don't know, hon. It sounds almost like…a car."

Dean squints into the distance. "Not a car," he says. And there, a good mile away, is a puff of dust. Movement. The buzz becomes a roar and then they can all see it now. A motorcycle heading their way.

"Off the road," Dean commands. He waves a hand at Julie and David to get off the highway. Sam sets Owen down by Nessa. They stand along the shoulder in a single line, almost like soldiers. Dean pulls out his gun, so does Sam. Nessa directs Owen to stand behind her and hoists the shotgun. Andy lifts his own gun with a grimace. Luke pulls his bat out of his backpack and positions himself between Craig and Julie.

Dean glances at Sam. _Be ready_.

I am.

The motorcycle downshifts and the engine whines. The driver squeals to a stop a good hundred yards away and slides off of the bike. It's a man. He's wearing jeans and a worn leather jacket. Dean notices with some interest the Sign of Solomon is drawn in chalk on the top of the man's helmet. He's wearing a camouflage pattern backpack and a double shoulder holster. Both pistols are visible.

The rider unstraps the helmet and lifts it off. He tosses it onto the motorcycle seat and that's when Dean notices the backpack is full of cylindrical cans. Black spray paint. The man turns toward to them with a wide grin. His face is lined and he squints in the sunlight. "There's no need for trouble, now. I'm just looking for Sam Winchester," he says, and slowly reaches into a pocket. He pulls out a toothpick. He sticks it in his mouth where it hangs off his lip in defiance of gravity.

Dean takes a step forward. "Who wants to know?"

The man scans the group. His eyes flick from Sam to Dean, and back to Sam. He nods toward Sam. "You Sam Winchester?" he asks, toothpick bobbing.

Dean's face shutters. "There's nobody here by that name."

The rider looks amused. "That so?"

"Why are you looking for him?" Sam asks and it's all Dean can do not to punch Sam in the head.

The rider beams. "You all can consider me the welcome wagon."

Sam's eyebrows knit. "The welcome wagon?"

"Yep. I'm here to accompany one Samuel Winchester to Truth or Consequences, New Mexico."

Sam steps forward before Dean can stop him. "I'm Sam."

The rider nods. "Course you are." He shoots a look toward Dean that seems to say _jackass_.

"We're not going anywhere with you," Dean says. "You could be a demon, or a—"

"For fuck's sake, I'm no demon. We've got some travelin' to do and we'd best be on our way. Doc's getting impatient. Truth be told, we all are."

"Impatient for what?" Dean demands.

The man rolls his eyes, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "For Sam, of course."


	9. Chapter 9

_Have you come here for forgiveness  
Have you come to raise the dead __  
__Have you come here to play Jesus __  
__To the lepers in your head. __  
__--Johnny Cash_

Chapter 9  


Dean's eyes narrow and a muscle in his jaw tics. He places a protective hand on Sam's back and herds him away from the rider. "We're not going anywhere with you."

Nessa shoots Dean a _you're not the boss of me_ look and asks, only a little desperate, "You have a doctor?" She nods toward Andy. "One of our group is hurt. We could use the help."

The man nods affably. "We got a doc, but he's more of a fix-it doctor than the healin' type, and he's more or less in charge. It was his idea to paint messages all over the place. He's been trying to get you here for ages." He chews the end of the toothpick and scratches his cheek with a split and blackened fingernail. "My name's Jeff, by the way." He eyes Dean with faint amusement. "If I was a demon, you can believe I'd have a more impressive name than that."

Sam unconsciously moves closer to Dean and Andy. "How does this doctor know about me? What's he want?"

"We got us a seer back at camp. She's been telling us you were comin' for ages. The handful of us who didn't know the name Winchester back then, well, we sure know it by now. Seems fitting John Winchester's boys're gonna save us from the end of the world."

Sam's too stunned to feel panic. Obviously there's been some kind of mistake. "Are you sure it's me you're waiting for?"

Dean's face is hard, his eyes shuttered. "Why exactly are you waiting for Sam? If you got some kind of psychic I'm assuming you know he's a Sixer. I don't plan on handing my brother over for a lynching."

Jeff stares at Dean in open-mouthed shock, toothpick dangling precariously. Then he sucks the toothpick back in and rolls his eyes. "Good Lord, boy, are you retarded? Why in hell would we hurt Sam? He's gonna save us." Jeff gives Sam a hearty slap on the back. "Ain't you, Sam?"

Sam's mouth opens, then snaps shut. "I think you might have me confused with my brother," he mumbles. "Dean's more the hero type." _I'm more the fuck-up type. Or fucked-up type._

"Who's this psychic that's been seeing Sam?" Dean demands.

Jeff shakes his head and flashes an _aw-shucks_ smile. His teeth have seen better days. "No way I'm tellin' you. She'd have my head if I spoiled the surprise. You're just gonna have to wait and see."

Something that feels suspiciously like hope pricks at Sam. Missouri? Could she actually be alive? Dean's on the same wavelength. His face cracks in a wide grin. "Dude. Do you think it's--"

"God, I hope so," Sam says fervently.

ooooo

The first body is hanging from a telephone pole outside Santa Rosa, New Mexico. By the time they reach the other side of the city, Interstate 25 is lined with the dead. Nessa carries Owen, his face pressed against her neck.

Jeff's ever present toothpick bobs. "We used to cut 'em down," he says in a voice that suggests he's discussing the weather, "but they'd just put up new ones. Now we just leave 'em up. Serves as a warning for what happens if we let our guard down."

Sam keeps his gaze on the road, tight lipped. He can feel the dead watching him, their disappointment, their fear heavy in the air. They deserve to be buried, to be put to rest. _How many people did you leave hanging around? Just like old times._ He thinks of a woman he (it wasn't him, it wasn't really him, but it was, it _was_) left hanging from a tree, a note pinned to her that said _hey bro, you're a little late_. He turns to Dean and mutters "I'm sorry."

Dean's walking beside him, grim faced. He starts at Sam's voice. "Huh? For what?" But Sam just shrugs and looks away.

Julie clutches David's hand. She tries to keep her head down, but David stares at each empty ruined face, his lips moving in a silent mantra. It takes Sam a while to figure out he's saying _don't be her, don't be her. _

Behind them, Andy stumbles and groans softly. Craig keeps him upright and Luke appears, putting a hand on Andy's back, as if he can simply prop the wounded man up.

"I think we've walked enough," Dean tells Jeff. "Let's take a break."

"I just need…if I can just sit down for a minute," Andy says. His voice is almost as unsteady as his legs. Nessa, Craig, and Luke help him to the ground.

Sweat drips from Andy's face. He wipes at it with his coat sleeve and sniffs loudly. Lying back on the asphalt, he closes his eyes. "I want Izzy," he mutters weakly.

"Who's Izzy?" Nessa asks.

Dean ignores her and points to the motorcycle. "Can you take Andy back to T or C? All this walking isn't exactly what the doctor ordered."

"What the doc ordered," Jeff says pointing to Sam, "is _him._ I'll take Sam back with me, the rest of you can follow. Shouldn't take more'n a day or two."

Sam shakes his head vehemently. "No. No way. I'm not going anywhere without Dean. And Andy needs help. If you want me to…to save everyone, I'll start with Andy."

Jeff spits the toothpick onto the ground and sighs, rubs his mouth with the back of a calloused hand. He gives Sam a long, considering look and finally nods. "Fine. Just be careful. Go as fast as you can, understand?"

Sam nods. "We will. You take care of Andy." He takes a step toward Jeff. "Understand?"

Jeff pulls on his helmet and plants a fresh toothpick between his teeth. "Yup." He and Dean hoist Andy onto the back of the motorcycle. "I'm gonna let 'em know you're on the way. We'll have the gates open and hot food ready and waiting." He squints up at the fading sun. "I reckon you'll get there around this time tomorrow."

Dean's so busy thinking about the food he almost misses the important part. "You have _gates_?"

"Sure do. The doc got everybody organized a few months back. I'm not sayin' they'll hold back an army, but they're better than nothing."

Jeff throws his leg over the motorcycle and hops on. Andy leans heavily against him. His face is ashen and he looks exhausted, but he winks at Luke. Luke winks back.

Dean reaches out and puts a restraining hand on the front of the bike. "Andy better be alive and well by the time we get there," he says. His words are heavy with an unspoken threat.

Jeff waves a hand. "Don't get your boxers in a twist. He'll be fine." His eyes narrow. "You keep your brother safe, you hear? He's the one we need." With that, the motorcycle roars to life and squeals away.

"You think Andy will be okay?" Sam asks. He hates seeing Andy go, but it's worth it to keep him safe.

"The bigger question is, will we?"

Sam shrugs. "This is what we've been working for. Toward. It's now or never."

Dean lifts one eyebrow. "I guess I pick now."

Sam nods. "Me too." He bends down to let Luke get on his shoulders. "How's your leg?"

Luke waves his hand in a _no big deal_ gesture. Sam pats Luke's good leg and they continue walking. "So what do you think about that stuff Jeff said?" he asks his brother.

Dean adjusts the duffel bag on his shoulder and shrugs. "I think you're gonna save the world." He turns to Sam and switches on his biggest and best shit-eating grin. "And I'm gonna help you."

ooooo

The motorcycle remains in sight for quite some time, a black and chrome beetle crawling along the horizon. Eventually, the distance is too great and it scuttles away for good.

The group walks until they come to a sign that proclaims _Clines Corners, 12 miles_. There's an air of impatience now, a growing sense of excitement that their journey is nearing completion, a feeling of elation despite the carnage flanking the road. The setting sun sends copper threads through clouds that are bleeding to pink as dusk approaches. Still, they keep walking. If it were up to Dean they'd walk all night -- why stop for sleep when he's too keyed up to close his eyes? -- but it's pretty clear that the rest of the group is interested in sleep, especially Owen and Luke. Craig's been carrying Owen for the last half hour, and the boy looks ready to drop. For that matter, so does Craig. Sam's still carrying Luke, and even though he hasn't complained, Dean's sure Sam could use a break. He sighs and comes to a stop. "Look," he says, "I know we're anxious to get to T or C, but we should probably stop for the night. Everybody could use something to eat and a little shut-eye."

Sam lets Luke slide off his back and rubs at the muscles in his neck. He rolls his shoulder and turns his head left, then right, in an attempt to stretch his weary muscles. Tripod streaks between his legs and vanishes into some brush a few yards away. "I need to talk to you," Sam says softly, and Dean stares at his brother in shock. Sam asking to talk? Maybe things really are turning around. It's been months since Sam shared any kind of feelings voluntarily. Years. Dean sobers. How long _has_ it been? Back when they still had the Impala. Back when corpses on telephone poles were the stuff of nightmares and not reality.

"Can you wait until we get things organized?" He'd prefer to get everyone settled, but if Sam needs to talk now, he's more than ready to hand off the salt and matches to Craig.

"I can wait. It's just—"

"No. No. We've got to keep going." The voice is a mixture of panic, obstinacy, and denial. David Tanner is trying desperately to free his hand from his daughter's grip. His eyes flick from face to face until they settle on Dean. "We can't stop now. I've got to find Juliet. We have to keep looking." His eyes plead louder than his words. "If we wait until morning she might be gone."

Dean frowns. "Juliet?" The name means nothing to him.

Lisa steps forward, one hand on her father's arm. "He's talking about my mom," she says softly.

Dean blinks. Oh. Well, shit.

"Dad," Lisa says gently. "Mom's dead. Remember?"

David's only response is to push his glasses up on his nose. He ignores Lisa and runs a hand through his mussed hair. "I've got to find her." He smiles pleasantly, as if he's asking for the time or offering a compliment. "I've been looking so long." He turns the smile on Lisa. "I think we're getting close, sweetie. She's waiting for us in that Truth or Consequences place everyone's so eager to get to." He nods and mutters to himself. "Yes. She's waiting for me." His smile brightens. "For us."

Dean has no idea what to say. He casts a _now what?_ look at Sam, but Sam's already at David's side. "I know you want to find your wife," he says, "but it's getting too dark to travel. It's not safe. We need to stay together and wait until morning." David's face falls and he opens his mouth to protest, so Sam blunders on. "We can go first thing, as soon as it's light, okay?" He mirrors Lisa's movement and puts a hand on David's other arm. "Okay?"

David shakes Sam's hand off and rubs a palm over his forehead and up into his hair. He stands there, looking at Sam, his face rife with uncertainty. "I don't. I don't…know," he admits brokenly. "I don't know what to do."

"We can wait," Lisa reassures him. The girl wraps both arms around her father and pulls him close. "I love you Daddy," she says into the front of his shirt. "I love you, but Mom's dead. We can look for her, but she's not going to be there." Her voice wavers dangerously. "Do you…do you understand?"

For a split second David's face transforms into a look of such horror and loss that Dean is forced to turn away. His stomach clenches. Shit.

Sam approaches David slowly, arms at his sides, palms up. He parrots what David said earlier. "She's waiting in Truth or Consequences for you. Everything's fine," he lies.

Lisa nods rapidly. "Yes. Dad. We'll get to Truth or Consequences, just not tonight. And when we get there, I can help you look for mom, okay?"

David licks his chapped lips, his bleary gaze ping-ponging between his daughter and Sam. "I. I." He removes his glasses and rubs at the bridge of his nose. "I don't know what to do."

"We should rest for the night," Sam says. "It's too dark to see. If we try to keep going, we might get hurt." He pauses, then adds ominously, "Or worse."

"Besides, it'll be easier to look for mom if you're not tired," Lisa points out.

David studies Sam for a long moment. Dean doesn't understand how Sam can meet the man's gaze without screaming. Finally, David nods. "Okay." And with that, he walks toward the fire and sits down. Tripod materializes from the shadows and rubs her head against David's knee.

The minute David's gone, Sam's smile shatters and he puts both hands to his face. He rubs furiously, as if he can scrub the lies away. When he lowers his hands Lisa is watching him. "Thank you," she says simply, and goes to her father.

"Jesus," Dean mutters. "That is some fucked up shit."

Sam nods, his eye on the fire.

ooooo

Craig is pouring salt carefully in a wide circle. Luke hobbles after him, pointing out spots that need repair. Nessa's telling Owen a bedtime story, her low voice drifting toward them, and Sam sits down to listen. The story is about a beautiful princess named Buttercup and her one true love, Wesley. It doesn't take long for Sam to realize Nessa is reciting the plot of _The Princess Bride._ "Hey, I know this."

Nessa lifts an eyebrow. "I've already gone through every Disney movie, given a detailed description of every school play I was ever in, and used a great deal of creative license on _Edward Scissorhands_ and _The Nightmare Before Christmas_." She turns to Owen and pokes him gently in the stomach. "You are a harsh task-master, mister."

Owen giggles, not at the words, but at her tone of voice. He pokes her back. "More story," he implores and Nessa exhales noisily. Dean seats himself next to the young woman. "How about I tell you a story, little man? I used to tell stories to my brother all the time when we were kids."

Owen scratches his nose and look up at Nessa. Whatever he sees in her face reassures him, because he nods at Dean. "Okay."

Dean leans back on his elbows. "Okay," he winks at Owen. "This is a good one. It takes place a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away."

ooooo

When Sam wakes, Dean is gone. They're all gone. Sam whirls, all traces of sleep gone. Not only is he fully awake, so is the panic roiling in his gut. _Shit_. Where is everybody? He looks down at his hands, but there's no blood. He scans the ground for clues, for the fucking heron, for anything.

All he finds is a dead fire and a lot of salt. Wait. The packs are still here, Dean's is right there. Sam frowns, trying to work out a reason for everyone's absence. _They ditched you. They know what you've done._ Maybe David wandered off and they're out looking for him. But if that's the case, why not wake Sam up too?

He starts down the highway, slowly at first, and gradually picks up speed. He's got a steady jog going by the time he notices the telephone pole. It's a fair distance away, and his eyesight is not exactly what it used to be, but he can still see there's a body hanging from it. Fuck. Not more of this shit.

Only this time, the corpse doesn't belong to a stranger. Sam's heart leaps when he recognizes David. His hands and feet are bound to the pole, and a wide collar of blood rings his neck and stains the front of his shirt. His eyes stare blankly, glasses askew. His hair blows gently in the breeze. Sam tries to swallow, but there's something in his throat. He coughs, gags, and pulls in a wheezing breath.

On the other side of the highway is Lisa. Her head hangs low, chin to chest, blood still dripping onto the pavement. Sam stares. He blinks. Blinks again. But when he opens his eyes, Lisa is still there. "No," he says. "No."

He's running now, heart pounding harder than his feet. Down the highway is Nessa. She's trussed to a pole too, her eyes pale white marbles in her dark face. It doesn't end. There's Craig, and Jesus Christ, Luke. Sam's face is wet with tears and he can barely see. His vision keeps blurring, and he has to constantly wipe his face. _Please_, he prays. _Please. Let Dean be okay._ Even Owen is dead, and Sam crouches on the shoulder of the road, dry-heaving into tall yellow weeds. He stumbles back to his feet and keeps walking, arms in front of him now, like a blind man or a drunk. And then he sees Dean.

He knows instantly that Dean is dead. He almost falls, his legs don't seem to be functioning quite right. He reaches the pole and throws his arms around Dean, pressing his face to Dean's chest, smearing blood against his face. He doesn't know what to do. He's lost without Dean. He wonders why he's not tied to a telephone pole as well.

A shrill cry cuts through the air and Sam looks up. Perched on the top of the telephone pole is a grey heron. It watches him with a yellow bead eye, unblinking. "This is what's waiting for you, Sam. No truth, only consequences," the bird says, and picks lazily at a wing with his beak. "The consequences are coming, boy. Do you really want to face them?"

Sam's too shocked to feel anger, there's only a vast, sweeping loss. It pours into him like sand, like lead, until he's weighted to the ground. He blinks stupidly at Dean, waiting for him to move or laugh or tell him it's all a big fucking joke. He blinks again, and that's when he sees the paper pinned to Dean's shirt. _Sorry, bro, you're a little late._

ooooo

Sam jerks awake to find Dean watching him. Dean's got his _I'm worried you're freaking out_ face on, but Sam doesn't care. Dean can have any face he wants as long as he's alive. Sam glances around the camp and sure enough, everyone is here, safe and sound. Well, not really safe. And most of them aren't very sound, either. But at least they're here. Sam lets his head fall back with a thud. "Bad dream?" Dean asks.

Laughter bubbles out of him before he can stop it. Sam shakes his head. "That's one way of putting it," he says. He brings his hands to his face. "Oh God," he groans. "That was…not good." He sits up with a sigh.

"What was it about?"

Sam runs a hand across his chin, debating what to say. "Let's just say...not everyone is excited as we are about us getting to T or C."

Dean purses his lips and wiggles them in and out. He glances around the camp, checks to make sure Nessa and Owen are both still sleeping. "Was it like...prophetic? Or garden variety nightmare?"

Sam snorts. "Since when is anything garden variety about me?" His voice is harsh. He rubs the back of his neck, trying to force the stiffness out of his muscles. "I don't think it was a warning. I mean, it was a warning, but it's not like with Jessica." Sam studiously avoids Dean's gaze. He gets to his feet and starts walking. "I think it would be a good idea if we got going."

In the distance, a bird's call shatters the morning stillness.

Sam keeps walking.

ooooo

"I don't know what they think I'm gonna do," Sam admits. His eyelid is steel wool. He imagines his ruined eye socket is full of sand: if he pulls off the patch, a small desert will run out onto his shoe. The thought brings him back to the nightmare and he scowls. He's exhausted, feels brittle and old. At times like this, he can't fathom that he's only twenty-six. He feels twice that old. "If Jeff's telling the truth, that whole town is pinning their hopes on me, Dean. On _me_."

Dean rubs his eyebrows with a thumb and forefinger. "Yeah. So. You'll save them. And I'll help."

Sam drains his water bottle. "That's it? That's your big pep talk? I gotta tell you, dude, it's not your best work."

Dean snorts. "Shut up. Look. You worry too much. They've got a psychic. A doctor. Andy's gonna be there. You can work your Wonder Twins mojo."

"I hope so," Sam interjects bleakly. "For all we know Andy's dead in a ditch on the side of the road. Or he's been sacrificed."

Dean reaches into his pack and hands Sam a fresh bottle. "Did you or did you not say you had a vision of hunters in T or C?"

Sam rubs his dry lips with the back of his hand. He opens his mouth to argue, thinks better of it. He shrugs one shoulder and reaches for the bottle of water. "Yeah. I did."

"So what do you think? They're gonna stand you up on the edge of town and say so long and good luck? You're not alone, Sam." Dean puts a hand on his brother's shoulder. "I know you feel like a little emo bitch most of the time, but that's just in your head. All that hair is probably crushing your brain, you know? You've got me, Andy, a bunch of hunters. "

"Who'll probably want to kill me."

Dean pulls his hand off Sam's shoulder and punches him in the arm.

Sam frowns and rubs his biceps. "Ow."

"You deserve it. If they're all waiting for you like you're the great geek hope, I'm guessing it's kind of counter-productive if they kill you." Dean looks thoughtful. "But I'm only guessing."

The corner of Sam's mouth turns up. "Fine. Maybe I'm just...freaking out a little."

Dean stares. "Maybe?"

Sam huffs. "Okay. I'm freaking out."

Dean doesn't blink. "A _little_?"

Sam adjusts the wattage on his glare. "Very funny. I'd like to see your mood if you were supposed to save the world and didn't have a damn clue how to do it."

Dean grins. "Come on, man. I save the world every day just by making it a prettier place."

Sam glances around at the barren landscape. "You're doing a pretty suck-ass job then."

Dean waves Sam's criticism away. "You should see it when I'm not around."

Sam casts a quick look at his brother. He doesn't want a world where Dean's not around. "Fine.  
The world is pretty. You're pretty. Everything's pretty. Let's just go, okay?"

"Yeah, but _I'm_ pretty as in _hot_ and _you're_ pretty as in _a big girl_. A girl who collects dolls."

"It's just sad how you think you're so fricking hilarious when really you're just lame and old."

"Dude. That is harsh. I'll have you know I'm not lame or old."

"It's neither lame nor old."

"Wow. The chicks must dig you when you go all English teacher on them."

"It's better than sounding like a moron."

"Yeah? You're a prissy girl."

"And you're still an old man."

"Can you take a break from professing your undying love for each other for one second?" Nessa breaks in. "Owen has to pee and he wants one of you to take him." She grins impishly. "He says he wants a big boy to take him, but frankly, I don't see any around here."

Dean strokes his chin, feigning heavy thought. "Hmm. What about Luke?"

"Do you think I'd be asking Dumb and Dumber if Luke could do it? His leg is bothering him."

Dean stage whispers to Sam, "Just so you know, she's implying you're Dumber."

Sam's eyebrow jerks and his lips fold down in a pout. "Hey! She's rude."

Dean nods sadly. "And here I thought vets were nice and friendly and eventually became cat ladies when they got old. You keep talking like that, and your cats are gonna turn on you."

Nessa bursts into laughter. "Can you help Owen before he pees his pants? Cuz otherwise, one of you is carrying him the rest of the day."

Sam gives Dean a nuanced look and Dean nods. Sam lifts his hand to chest level, elbow bent. "Ready?"

Dean holds his hand the same way. "Ready."

Sam counts -- "One, two, three" – and they both bring their hands down. Sam's hand is balled into a fist, Dean's index and middle finger are in the shape of a V. "Rock beats scissors," Sam beams. He makes a shooing motion. "Buh-bye."

"You suck," Dean grumps. But his smile returns when he sees Owen hopping up and down on the edge of the road. "Hey little man. Let's go."

Owen grins back. "Hi Dean. Why can't I go potty by myself? How come Nessa or you or some grown-up gots to come with me?"

Dean ruffles the boy's hair. "When we're back to using bathrooms you can go alone. Until then, you've got company."

Owen eyeballs Dean. "No looking."

Dean holds his hands up, nodding agreement. "No looking. Cross my heart."

Nessa watches the pair move off toward a straggling copse of trees. "That kid really took a shine to Dean," she says.

Sam hooks his thumbs into his back pockets, a wistful expression on his face. "Kids always do."

ooooo

His feet hurt, but he doesn't care. This is it. The finish line. Journey's end. He'll walk until his feet fall off, because they're almost there. Not home, but close. A place they can rest, sleep in relative safety. There'll be people. Hunters. He's still nervous, but it's evenly split between reaching T or C, and T or C's reaction to him.

Luke's leg is better, and he's walking on his own. David is calm. They're making good time. Sam knows enough to realize that means something's going to go wrong, so when the clouds roll in like grim-faced boulders, he's not particularly surprised.

It starts raining outside Socorro. It's a torrential, driving rain, and it feels like going down the Logger's Run at Great America ten times in a row while fully dressed. Sam's clothes are lead, clinging like desperate, sodden hands. Each raindrop is a cold pebble on his skin. His hair is plastered against his head and face, and it's nearly impossible to see. The others slog through the downpour, miserable and silent. The rain washes away the previous day's good mood, uncertainty standing in hope's place.

Sam can't remember a storm this bad before. The weather's been more or less cooperative up to now. He finds himself wondering if there's such a thing as a weather demon. Owen cried for a while, but he's silent now, shivering in Nessa's arms. After a while, Dean relieves her and carries the boy. Nessa finds a plastic bag in her backpack and fashions a crude plastic scarf for Owen's head. The rain patters steadily against the plastic, but the boy doesn't seem very impressed with Nessa's efforts.

Sam holds Luke's hand, more in an attempt to keep upright than to offer the boy comfort. David and Lisa walk side by side, one mirroring the other. They both have their arms crossed tightly, as if making a last-ditch effort to keep a sliver of clothing dry. Sam doesn't think its working. His boots squelch through puddles, the rain probes wet fingers down the back of his shirt. He squeezes Luke's hand and unconsciously pulls the boy closer as they pass the dripping figures tied to telephone poles. Water streams down blank faces, turning them to melting wax. Sam's thankful he can't see better.

"You okay?" Dean shouts through the deluge.

"Awesome," Sam responds.

It's like walking through a waterfall. Every so often Sam thinks he sees something looming out of the curtain of rain, but nothing's there. He feels jumpy and disoriented. "Did you see that?" Sam asks.

"All I see is water," Dean grunts.

Luke squeezes Sam's hand and he looks down at the boy. Luke blinks up at him, but his expression is unreadable. Sam feels his back pocket and takes small comfort in the fact his gun is still there.

ooooo

Eventually, the rain tapers off. The downpour becomes a shower, then finally, mist. A thick arm of thick fog splits the highway in half. They wade through the dense haze and emerge onto a long, vacant stretch of road. The telephone poles are mercifully bare. The few abandoned cars that remain have been pushed to the shoulder of the road.

Dean sees it first: a broken sign on the edge of the highway. Sam squints at the faded word _Consequences_. Truth is long gone. Sam wonders if the sign is an omen. They're nearly there now.

Craig pats Sam lightly on the back. "You haven't fulfilled your destiny, Sam," the professor says softly. "Not even close. You remember that."

Dean leads the way, Sam at his side. Their shoes squelch on the pavement, their hair drips. Directly behind them are Craig, Luke, Nessa and Owen. Bringing up the rear are David and Lisa. Tripod runs alongside, disappearing into a pocket of brush here, reappearing there. They walk in silence, clothes still soaked. Sam stops abruptly and nudges Dean. He points ahead.

Squat buildings spring up along the edge of the road. Empty houses, gas stations and gift shops watch them, wood faces impassive. Billboards advertising dozens of spas have been painted over. Black lettering proclaims WELCOME TO T OR C.

A curve in the road leads them to a group of five men. They're all well-armed. Behind them stands a large home-made gate made of pallets, barbed wire, burnt-out cars. A large white Devil's Trap sprayed across the road separates the men from Dean and his group. All five men wear motorcycle helmets; each helmet is decorated with various protective symbols.

One of the men steps forward and removes his helmet. Jeff grins at them, toothpick dangling. "Took you long enough. If you'll be kind enough to step onto the welcome mat, we can get things moving."

The other members of Jeff's group remove their helmets, but the weapons remain at the ready. Sam is surprised to see one of the guards is actually a russet-haired woman. She looks vaguely familiar, but Sam can't place her. He quickly looks away, afraid she'll recognize him as a Sixer.

Dean doesn't bother to protest Jeff's request. One by one they enter the Devil's Trap and wait expectantly. "I told you it weren't necessary," Jeff says when they're all safely through the circle. "They're clean."

A large bald man steps forward, eyes narrowed. "We don't know that. Not for sure."

Craig rolls up his sleeve, Dean follows suit. "I don't know if this helps," Craig says calmly, "but I doubt a demon would care to inhabit skin marked by this." He points to the Seal of Solomon on his arm.

"How's Andy?" Dean demands. "Is he okay?"

Jeff tilts his head. "Yep."

"And was he possessed?" Dean snarks. "Try to kill everybody during the night?"

The corner of Jeff's mouth twitches. "Not that I noticed. But I tend to be a sound sleeper."

The woman holds a hand up. "Enough. We've waited months. More than a year. If anyone can tell us that these folks are who they say they are, she can." The woman watches Sam and Dean steadily for a long moment. "It does look like them." She scans the horizon, checks her watch. "And they're right on time."

Dean stares back. "Who told you? Do we know you? Is Missouri here?"

"I'm Monica," the woman replies. A small girl steps from behind her legs. The girl looks to be about three or four years old. She has light brown hair done up in two pigtails. She's wearing a pair of worn denim overalls and a gray sweater that matches her eyes. She holds a tattered doll in one hand. Only a single button eye looks out from the doll's face. Monica turns to the girl. "Well, Rosey? Is it him?"

Rosey's dark eyes flick across Sam's face and he stares back at her, stunned. "Rosey? Rose Holt?" A thousand years ago (_before he knew what he was, before he'd done what he did_) he had walked down a street in Salvation, Iowa. He'd met a young woman pushing her baby daughter in a stroller. That same night, he and Dean had saved Monica and her daughter from the yellow-eyed demon. And now, that baby–that child–is standing right in front of him. _Sometimes she looks at you and I swear it's – it's like she's reading your mind._

Dean's head swivels between Monica, Rosey and Sam. "No way," he breathes.

Rosey's gaze flicks to Dean and a smile splits her cherubic face. "Way," she chirps. She gives her mom a thumbs-up and races to Sam. She throws her arms around his legs and declares, "You saved my life! Mom said so, back when I was itty-bitty, and I remember you!"

Sam blinks down at her. He quickly lowers himself to his knees. "I remember you too. I can't believe how big you are!"

Rosey shrugs. "That's what kids are supposed to do. Get bigger." She gives him a pointed look. "You're big enough."

Sam grins so hard his face hurts. "I think you're right."

Rose turns back to her mom. "It's just him. Nobody else inside his head." She jerks a thumb toward Dean and makes a disgusted face. "He thinks you're hot."

Dean makes a choking sound and keeps his eyes fixed firmly on the ground.

Monica sighs. "Rose, stop it. People's thoughts are their own. You checked Sam, now that's enough," she says, careful not to look at Dean. "Say you're sorry."

Still looking like she just ate a spider, Rose offers a pinched apology to Dean. Her smile returns when she refocuses on Sam. "Come on, everybody's waiting for you. Come say hi to the Doctor."

ooooo

"How...how did you know we were coming?" Sam asks faintly. They're through the gates now, inside the city proper. Not that there's much city left.

"I have dreams sometimes. Visions, I guess," Rosey reveals easily. She swings Sam's hand in her own. "I started dreaming about you a while ago." Her face clouds. "Back when you were doing that naughty stuff."

Sam swallows thickly. _No. Please don't let her have seen– Don't let her know–_ "I'm sorry," he croaks. "I'm sorry you had to...had to see that."

Rosey shrugs again. "It wasn't really you. The Doctor explained it to me and Mom." She looks up at him. "That's how I knew you'd come. I had a dream you stopped listening to the thing in your head and you were gonna come and help us." She gestures around her with her free hand. "So we've been getting ready."

They're surrounded by dozens of people. There, a woman hangs laundry on a make-shift clothesline. Here, a man sits on the ground cleaning a veritable arsenal of weapons. Across the square a man holds an axe against an old-fashioned grindstone. A man and woman teach a small group of children a simple Latin exorcism. Dean elbows Sam. _Can you believe this shit?_

Sam's finding it hard to know what he believes, because everywhere they walk, whispers follow. The square easily contains over a hundred people and they're all watching the group of newcomers. Most are gathered in what was once a high school football field. The racing track has been converted into a large Devil's Trap. Tents are pitched across the field in neat rows. A block over, Sam can see a building that reads _Sierra Vista Medical Center_. He wonders if that's where Andy is.

Monica and Jeff stop outside an old garage. Faint music warbles out of tinny speakers. There's a sign on a warped side door that reads _Dr. Badass Is In_. Sam gapes at the wooden sign. He shakes his head. "No way. It can't be."

The door opens and a thin man sticks his head out. His hair is pulled back into a dirty blond ponytail and he regards Sam and Dean with a distinct lack of surprise. "Well," Ash drawls. "If it ain't the Winchesters. You two are slower than molasses in January going uphill both ways." He grins and throws an arm around each man's shoulder. "But damn, is it good to see you."


	10. Chapter 10

Just a note: The formatting of earlier chapters with time jumping back and forth resumes in this chapter.

* * *

_As the sun goes down, I move around  
Keeping to the shadows.  
Life, hangs by a thread  
And I've heard it said, that I'll not see tomorrow._

If that's my destiny, it'll have to be,  
So I'll face the future.  
Running out of time  
I'm on the line  
But I'll go down fighting.

--Judas Priest

Chapter 10

_Now._

The screaming goes on and on and _on_.

Sam clenches his teeth hard enough to make his jaw ache. Hannah squeezes his hand. He squeezes back, hoping his fingers instill something like confidence. Hannah stands on his left; Andy's on his right. Andy looks terrified, but when he sees Sam watching, he slides the fear aside and tries to smile. He's been around the Winchesters long enough to know how to hide his feelings. It's a shitty legacy to leave behind, and Sam wants to tell Andy to knock it off, but he can feel Hannah's hand trembling in his, so he keeps his mouth shut. Andy gives him a quick nod and Sam understands the message perfectly: _For Izzy._

Sam nods back. _For Jess_. And Mom and Dad. And Bobby and Ellen. For everyone they've known and loved and lost. For those they've never even met. _For everyone you killed._

Dean's hunched behind Jeff's motorcycle, a rifle balanced on the seat. He calls "You okay, Sam?"

Sam's not, he wants David to shut up, _shut up_, but he puts on a tight grin. It's much better than Andy's but Sam's had a lot of years to practice. "I'm great."

Dean grins. "Good to know."

And David keeps screaming.

ooooo

_Then._

Dean is in heaven. So what if heaven looks like a run down, piece of shit, hole-in-the-wall town. There's hot food that includes meat and baked fucking potatoes. There are clean clothes and actual toilets. He's pretty sure he hasn't smiled this much since he was with the Darby twins back in high school.

They're gathered inside the Truth or Consequences High School cafeteria. Ash and Jeff are presiding over the meal while Monica busies herself making coffee. _Fresh_ coffee. The smell of coffee beans hits his nose and he decides then and there that if there is a heaven, it smells just like this. When Ash hands Dean a can of beer, Dean thinks this might actually trump the Darby twins.

"How'd you survive?" Dean demands through a mouthful of potato. Sweet Jesus, there's even real butter.

Ash shrugs, toying with a fork. "It was pretty easy since I wasn't at the Roadhouse," he drawls softly. "I was tryin' to track down my folks. By the time I got back, the Roadhouse was gone." He shrugs, voice bitter. "Everyone was gone."

"What about your parents?" Sam asks.

Ash studies the tines of his fork intently. "Never found 'em. The house was empty." The man before them barely resembles the laid-back computer genius from the Roadhouse. This Ash looks tired, his face lined and hard. He's wearing at least five protective charms, the various cords and chains lying against his faded t-shirt in a tangle. He sets the fork down and steeples his fingers. "From what I understand, there ain't many places like this left." Off Dean's look he adds, "Places with hunters. Places that pose some kind threat to the demons and Sixers." At this, his gaze turns to Sam. "We all know about you, Sam. And it don't matter." Ash rolls his eyes and waves a hand. "Okay, it does matter," he admits with a sigh, "and there's plenty of folks who'd be happy to string you up by your balls. But as much as they hate you, they hate the demons more. And we know we can't do diddly shit against them without you."

"Is that how _you_ feel?" Dean asks, his good mood gone. Fucking pricks. Self-righteous bastards. If anyone lays a fucking finger on Sam there's gonna be hell to pay.

Ash's expression turns thoughtful. "I feel like it's in our best interest to kick a lot of demon ass. So I'm hoping Sam don't take it too personal if not everyone here rolls out the red carpet."

"But why do you think I can help?" Sam asks.

"Cuz Rose says so. She hadda vision."

"And her visions are always accurate?"

Ash gazes at Sam, his expression inscrutable. "Are yours?"

Sam doesn't respond.

"So, what, the demons just let you stay here? They've been having a picnic, playing a little Frisbee, waiting for us to hurry up and get here?"

Ash leans back in his chair. "They haven't _let_ us do shit. You saw the telephone polls, dintcha? They kill most everyone who tries to get in or out of this place. I'd say we're not the only ones waiting for you, Sam."

Sam blanches at this, and looks to Dean.

The baked potato suddenly feels like a lead ball in his gut. Dean pushes his plate away. "So what are you saying? This is some kind of trap?"

Ash smiles coldly. "It's a trap all right, but not for you. Boys, we got us a battle to get ready for."

ooooo

_Now._

"Let her in! For God's sake, let her in!" David tries to shove Jeff aside, but the older man won't budge. Jeff and Ash stand firm, grim-faced and armed.

Lisa stands near her father, head down, arms clamped tight around her torso. She lifts her face and Sam sees her eyes are bright with tears. "Dad! Stop it! It's not her! That's not Mom!"

The thing that used to be Juliet Thompson stands beyond the gate, outside the Devil's trap. "Please David, let me in," she begs and the hair bristles along Sam's arms.

ooooo

_Then._

Rose attaches herself to Sam like a pigtailed barnacle. Monica tries to dissuade the girl from playing Sam's shadow, but her arguments fall on deaf ears. Rosey wants Sam, and she's gonna have him. End of story.

After their meal, Jeff leads Sam and Dean to the hospital to visit Andy. Luke and Rosey tag along.

The hospital has been converted into a make-shift apartment building. "Most folks either sleep here, at the high school, or in the tents. There's a prison in Albuquerque that would keep us all in one place, but Ash don't want to risk going there now." Jeff plugs a fresh toothpick into his mouth. "Ah. Here we are."

Three kids inhabit the room next to Andy's. They're curled on the bed, coloring. A woman sits near the window, looking out, her face obscured. Dean pushes the door to  
Andy's room open to find his friend sitting up in bed. Craig sits beside the bed and both men look up when the Winchesters enter.

"Hey Andy." Sam grins at his friend. "How are you feeling?" He pats Andy's leg. "You look pretty good."

"Chicks are gonna dig that badass scar," Dean says with a knowing look. "Trust me."

Andy smiles faintly. "Yeah. Sure."

Sam struggles to keep from whacking Dean on the back of the head. The only girl Andy's interested in showing his scar to is dead.

Luke hurries over to Craig and slings an arm around his guardian's shoulder. He makes a thumbs-up gesture to Andy.

Andy returns the gesture. "You got it, kiddo. I'm gonna be out of here by tomorrow. The nurse said April missed all the good parts."

"Thank God," Sam breathes.

Jeff claps his hands together. "Okay then. He's still alive, you seen it for yourselves. Enough yackin'. We got work to do."

Dean glares at Jeff. "Dude. What the hell? You're not the Talk Police."

The toothpick in Jeff's mouth jerks left, then right. "Son, you can talk to your friend 'til your tongue falls off, for all I care." He nods toward the door. "You just got to do it _after_ we kill us an ass load of demons."

With that, Jeff hooks his thumbs in his belt loops and walks out the door. Sam catches his lower lip between his teeth, thinking. "We should at least see what kind of supplies they've got," he tells Dean. "We have no idea when the demons are coming. We should be as prepared as possible."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean says. "Fine. You're right." He salutes Andy. "Glad you're doing okay, man."

Craig moves to leave but Andy lifts a hand to stop him. "Could you stay a minute?"

ooooo

_Now._

Jeff pokes his rifle through the gate and fires. The thing that's no longer Juliet collapses in a boneless heap. Her movement toward the gate stops, but her voice doesn't. "David, it's _me_! Let me in!"

David runs at Jeff, eyes wild, but Ash steps in front of him, rifle butt raised in warning. "Listen to your kid, that's not your wife out there," he hisses. "Not any more."

The grieving man shrieks and launches himself forward in desperation. Ash swings the rifle and David sprawls in the dust, glasses flying, face bloody.

"Don't!" Lisa steps between her father and Ash, hands raised. "Stop it! He doesn't know what he's doing!"

The thing outside moans _Liiiisa_ and the girl drops to her knees beside David. She can barely speak through her tears. "That's not Mom," she sobs. "Mom's dead. That thing out there? That's not her, Dad. I know you want it to be, but it's _not_. Let her go."

Sam blinks back his own tears and that's when he sees the heron perched on top of the gate. Sly yellow eyes watch him. The bird's beak opens and Sam swears it's smiling.

Sam's still staring at the bird when the high school explodes.

ooooo

_Then._

They're walking through the main square when Sam sees the market. He stops abruptly and stares hard at his surroundings, stunned. A sign above the boarded-up window reads _Truth or Consequences Co-op_. Two men stand in front of a large brick building across the street. One holds a rifle. The other drops a rosary into a pail of water, lips moving. A child laughs nearby and Sam turns to look: it's Owen, dangling a piece of string in front of the three-legged cat. Tripod bats at it with one paw, its tail a question mark. A woman sits with her back against the market's brick front, her head bowed in prayer.

Sam rubs his face, mouth dry. He's standing in a little town in New Mexico while the world ends. And he's sitting in a house in Wisconsin waiting for Dean. This, right now, is his vision. The vision he had while waiting for Dean.

He's aware Jeff and Dean are staring at him, Jeff curious, Dean concerned. Sam licks his lips. Once, he had been planning to kill these people. Now he stands here with sweaty palms and a roiling gut, desperately searching for a way to save these same lives.

Dean's hand is on his arm. The woman sitting on the pavement looks up, and Sam sees it's not a woman at all, it's a teenage girl, maybe fifteen. She's got a dark braid over one shoulder and a long skirt wrapped around her legs. She stares at him, eyes wide, and it's a look he recognizes. "You." Her voice is tinged with a mixture of fear and awe.

Dean stares down at her. "Hey, I know you. You're the Sixer that hot-footed it out of Elk City." Dean's lips pull into a frown. "_After_ Sam helped you."

The girl shakes her head frantically, her gaze flickering between Jeff, Sam, and Dean. "No. I'm sorry. I thought…I thought you were someone else. I…I was wrong." She pushes herself to her feet, feeling for the wall behind her.

Sam understands instantly. "They don't know. You don't want anyone to know." It's not an accusation, just a statement.

Her hands slide down her sides and she grasps faded fabric in her fists. "I. I can't." Her gaze flicks to the hunters across the street and back to Sam. Her lower lip trembles. "They'll kill me." She looks at him with pleading eyes and Sam fights to maintain eye contact. She has faith in him. She's afraid of him. She thinks he can do anything and he_can't._

"They won't," Sam says. He injects his voice with certainty. "I helped you once. Now you can help me."

She drops her gaze. "I can't. I just…I want to be left alone."

Dean chuckles. "Then you came to the wrong place, kiddo, because there's a battle coming and you're gonna help."

"There some kinda problem?" Ash wanders up, thumbs hooked in his back pockets, eyebrows raised. Rosey peers out from behind one denim-clad leg. Ash sniffs loudly and rubs his nose. His body language says _I don't give a shit_ but his eyes are hard, bright coins.

Dean nods toward the girl. "She's a Sixer."

The girl emits a little moan of dismay and tries to flatten herself into the wall. Sam reaches for her hand. "It's okay." There's no garbage whirling around them this time, but she looks just as lost. Her fingers tremble against Sam's. Sam regards Ash. "She's afraid you're gonna—" Sam can feel Rosey eying him and trails off. "Uh, make her leave," he finishes lamely.

Ash folds his arms and cocks his head. He regards the girl. "What's your name? I don't think we been properly introduced."

"Hannah." She aims her name at the pavement.

"Nice to meetcha, Hannah. I'm Ash. I got another question for you. You ever killed somebody on purpose?"

Hannah shakes her head vehemently. "No."

"By accident?"

Another headshake.

"Then what's the big fuckin' deal?" Ash casts a sheepish look at the little girl. "Oops. Sorry, Rose."

Rose giggles. "Ha! You owe me a money!"

Ash reaches into his pocket and pulls out a quarter. He flips it toward Rosey's cupped palms. She inspects the quarter carefully, as if Ash might have pulled a fast one, then nods and grins, pleased. "_Cool_. Now say some more swears!"

Ash sighs and pokes a finger toward Owen and the cat. "Why don't you go play."

"Nuh-uh. I want more moneys."

"Don't we all." Ash turns his attention back to Hannah. "You ain't the only Sixer here. You help us fight the demons and there ain't gonna be a problem. If you fight _us_? _That's_ when you got a problem."

"I'm a Sixer, too," Rose pipes up. "And that's silly cuz I'm not even six. But I'm almost four," she adds proudly.

Hannah's face relaxes slightly. Her hand stops shaking. "I don't want to fight anyone."

Ash scratches his chin. "Well now," he drawls, "I'm not sure you got a choice."

ooooo

_Now._

"Come on, come _on_!" Dean sprints toward the school as a small group of hunters trickle out of it, white-faced. "It's a fucking diversion; they're coming from the side." Monica hurries past gripping a crying Rosey.

Luke runs up, baseball bat clenched in his hands, Craig beside him. Craig holds the _Key of Solomon_ in one hand, a gun in the other.

Dean points toward the burning school and Craig begins murmuring Latin. Two hunters and an old woman wearing a scarf covered in Anasazi symbols join him, their voices intertwining like fingers. Luke taps Lisa's shoulder to get her attention and pushes her toward Monica and Rose. Then he follows Craig and the other hunters.

Dean moves to follow as well, then hesitates. He turns back toward the gate, aims his revolver, and pulls the trigger. The bird squawks and flies off, wings flapping, into the smoke. "I hate that fucking bird," he mutters and stalks off.

ooooo

_Then._

Sam spends the afternoon helping make silver bullets. The bullets are cooled in holy water and a cross is painstakingly etched onto each one.

Vanessa teaches Hannah how to shoot. By the time the sky goes purple the girl can hit the bulls-eye more often than not. 

ooooo

_Now._

Sam, Hannah and Andy position themselves behind the burning school. Flames reach upward like copper hands, the sky is red and swollen above their heads. Dozens of hunters crouch nearby, wary but ready. Dean and Jeff are among them.

A bolt of blue electricity crackles over the makeshift fence bordering the school from the surrounding scrub and a Sixer climbs over it. The crack of gunfire echoes past Sam's head and the Sixer falls back but two more take his place. A young man grabs the fence and rips a five-foot hole as if he's tearing cardboard. Hannah nervously shifts her grip on Sam's wrist. Demons, both in their pure form, as well as those possessing humans, walk across the twisted wire and shattered boards. Some of the demons scream. Some laugh. Some murmur dark promises.

Sam sorts through the cacophony of sound. He can hear the familiar lilt of Latin syllables behind him, fragments of prayers, and muttered cursing. He can hear a woman screaming _get back_ and a man shouting _not my son_ and a high-pitched shriek of _go back to hell you fuckers_. He can hear the sharp staccato of gunfire, of silver bullets spiraling toward targets, the hiss of holy water against skin. He sees expressions of grim determination alongside hope and dead-eyed resignation. He smells the smoke and sweat and the coppery stink of blood. There are eighty-seven people in Truth or Consequences. He will (_please, I have to_) save them all.

ooooo

_Then._

Luke watches the kids play.

The gunshots are loud but he's used to the sound now. Here, in the compound, they're the sound of safety, not death. That makes him feel sad somehow, so he pushes the thought away and rubs at his leg. It's mostly healed now. It doesn't bother him at all. Well, not much.

Owen and Rosey are playing catch on the far end of the parking lot. They keep throwing the ball in his direction. It's obvious they want him to play, but he doesn't feel like it. He just rolls the ball back each time and the little Sixer girl scowls in annoyance. Luke doesn't care. He's not a little kid. He's got grown up stuff to do.

He sits cross-legged, bat balanced across his knees. An open Latin book rests beside him. Just because he doesn't say the words aloud, doesn't mean they're not worth knowing. He memorizes the words carefully. He wonders if his mom would be proud.

ooooo

_Now._

Sam takes a deep breath and squeezes Andy's hand. _Now._ Andy lifts his face to the angry sky and screams _Stop_ like it's the only word left in the universe. 

Nearly all the Sixer soliders hesitate. Hannah points to a pile of lead pipes and waves her hand toward the remaining Sixers. The pipes fly straight and true, smashing three of the four Sixers out of the way. One of them ducks and the pipe flies harmlessly over his head. He snarls and runs toward Hannah. Hannah jerks her fingers and the pipe turns and hits the Sixer from behind. He drops without a sound.

"Stay on the ground," Andy shouts. He closes his eyes and focuses the words, hefts them toward the ground like weights. They pin the Sixers to the ground. "If you stay down, we won't hurt you."

One of the demons shrieks and dissipates into a swirl of smoke as Craig completes an exorcism. A second demon with red eyes and clawed hands leaps over a felled Sixer, mouth gaping to reveal a row of jagged teeth. Sam lets go of Hannah's hand and lifts his palm in a _stop_ gesture and it flies backward into the broken fence. Sam's jaw clenches and he lifts his hand again, bringing the demon down hard a second time. This time the demon screams in agony as a broken board pierces his chest like a wooden needle.

"You are no longer soldiers," Andy calls out. "You're free of the Commander's hold."

Sam puts one hand to his head, the other still tight around Andy's wrist. He imagines a dozen windows, doors, and drawers. He slams then all shut with a _bang_. He sways momentarily and squeezes Andy's arm. _Keep going_.

"Open your eyes," Andy shouts, "and see the truth."

ooooo

_Then._

He can feel them coming. His head aches and he doesn't know what to do with his hands. Hannah sits nearby, concentrating on the skeletal remains of an overstuffed chair. The chair creaks and lurches into the air, then crashes back down with a thud. A rusty spring pokes from the seat. Hannah claps her hands together. "I did it!" She turns the smile on Sam. "Did you see? I did it!"

Rose pumps her fists in the air and twirls herself closer to the older girl. "Now do me!"

Sam squeezes his eyes shut. There's not enough time. They have weapons and strength and hope and Andy and Hannah but it's not _enough._ He cracks his knuckles and it's the sound of breaking bones. He clasps his hands together, and searches for Dean.

There he is, on the far side of the track field, next to a large tent. He's deep in conversation with Ash and Jeff. As if sensing his brother's scrutiny, Dean turns suddenly and glances toward Sam. He lifts a hand in greeting.

Sam waves back, but his arm feels as if it's made of stone.

ooooo

_Now._

One of the Sixers sprawled near Hannah shrieks in agony and her hands dig feebly at the ground. Another Sixer curls into himself, weeping. A third reaches for one of the lead pipes and bashes herself in the face. Blood spurts from her nose and dribbles down her chin. She stumbles and raises the pipe for a second swing.

Hannah focuses on the pipe and pulls it out of the girl's grasp. The Sixer drops to her knees and searches blindly, hands skittering in the dirt, keening softly.

"Listen to me!" Andy shouts and his voice is steel and thunder. "Everything is all right now. You haven't done anything wrong. Let your guilt go. You're free." Andy's voice echoes around them. "Say it!"

"I'm free," the Sixer with the broken face mutters, and pushes herself to her feet. One by one, the Sixers follow Andy's instructions. Some yell the words, some whisper them, some mouth them through tears. The woman pushes red, wet strands of hair from her face and blinks at Sam. "I'm free?" This time it's a question.

Andy nods. "Yes."

She turns her head and spits a mouthful of blood into the dirt. She coughs, clears her throat and turns back to Andy. "How can I help?"

ooooo

_Then._

"Pleeeease," Rose whines, making the _ease_ sound like a hive of overactive bumblebees.

"No." Hannah says apologetically, "it's too dangerous."

"Poop!" Rose yells, and stomps her foot.

Sam reaches for the little girl and swings her to face him. "Hannah's right," he tells her. "She's still learning. It doesn't matter if the chair breaks. It matters a lot if you do." Sam pulls the girl onto his knee and turns to Hannah. "Lift it again, and this time move it backwards. At least three feet."

Hanna's mouth falls open. "Sam. I don't...I don't think I can do that. Not without your help."

"You don't need my help," he says shortly. "Do it. We're running out of time."

Hannah shuts her mouth and stares nervously at the dilapidated chair.

"Listen to me Rosey," Sam whispers into the little girl's ear, "this isn't a game. She's not being mean. We just want you to be safe."

Rosey nods and lifts her chin to see Sam's face. The tantrum is over and her eyes are large and solemn. "I'm sorry."

Sam ruffles her hair. "It's okay." His eyes fall on Craig. He stands a few feet away, coiling a length of rope into a neat loop. Sam watches the rope go around and around while Craig whistles tunelessly.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?" he asks, distracted. The rope loops from Craig's hand to the crook of his elbow and back and Sam feels lost. His wrists burn.

"How come you want Craig to tie your hands up?"

Sam goes still. He wishes Hannah could send him a million miles away. He wishes Dean were here. He wishes he could see with both eyes. He can't tell which feels heavier right now, the weight of Rose against his leg or the fact he's supposed to save everyone here.

"Do you wanna play cowboys 'n Indians?"

"I...not right now." Sam struggles to smile. He can tell he fails miserably because the little girl scuttles off him like a crab.

Rose doesn't go far. She sighs and clasps her hands behind her back and scuffs a pink shoe in the dirt. "You miss your daddy, huh?"

Sam doesn't trust himself to speak, so he simply nods.

"I miss my daddy too." Rose's toe continues to work the dirt. "He got sick and stopped being my daddy. My momma had to kill him." Her face momentarily goes blank and Sam's heart clenches within his chest. Then Rose's face brightens. "But Momma says he still loves me, even though he's dead. Your daddy prob'ly loves you too."

Sam nods weakly but he knows better. If it were up to his dad, he'd be dead by now. He's pretty sure John Winchester would have used a large caliber bullet on him if he'd been in Dean's position. His stomach burns, his mouth tastes like metal. _Don't think about it. Don't think about it._

Rose smiles suddenly and pushes herself up onto her tip-toes, the epitome of hope. "Next time you wanna play cowboys, can I play too?"

ooooo

_Now._

From his position behind the tree, things don't look half bad. Sam, Andy and Hannah are still in one piece. The Sixers surrounding the trio that are still alive seem to be free of Yellow Eyes' influence, and the one with the fucked up face just asked to help.

Another demon bites the big one as the woman with the Anasazi scarf completes an exorcism. The fire is more or less under control thanks to the lack of wind and a Sixer who seems to work some kind of mojo with water. Now _that's_ a decent power. For the first time Dean lets himself think _maybe._.

ooooo

_Then._

Their fourth day in T or C Dean discovers he doesn't need a calendar or a clock because one look at Sam's face is more than enough to tell him how fast the shit's approaching the proverbial fan. Sure, Sam pitches in with the planning and the training and the weapons cleaning. He shovels food into his face, he sleeps (not even Sam can fake snores like that) and teaches the new kid to levitate crap. He visits Andy, helps Craig paint protective circles on pretty much every surface available, and bitchfaces his way through an afternoon of laundry. Sam answers Dean's questions, has actual _conversations_, but Dean's not stupid and he's not blind. The way Sam's fingers pick at the hem of his shirt, the way his fingernails morph into bloody, shredded moons, the way he avoids eye contact, the way he hunches his shoulders like an old (and freakishly tall) man, the way he clutches his head when he thinks Dean's not looking? It's all one big-ass tell that Sam's a hair's breadth from falling down the rabbit hole. Again. And after everything they've gone through this past year, Dean's not about to let that happen. No fucking way.

It could be worse. Sam might be catatonic. Or off killing people and leaving little notes behind. So when Sam wanders into the gymnasium, laughing and carrying Rosey on his back, Dean chalks one up for the win column. Sam flips Rose over his head and hands the giggling girl off to a bemused Monica. Mother and daughter head toward Ash and Sam lopes toward Dean.

Sam seats himself on the cot across from Dean. "Hey."

"Hey. Saw you with Hannah earlier. Looks like she's gettin' the hang of things."

"Yeah." Sam huffs. "If the demons attack us with chairs, we'll be all set."

Dean grins. At least Sam's making an effort. Dean flips through a paperback Jeff lent him, not seeing a word. "So. Exactly how freaked out are you?"

Sam lifts an eyebrow and pulls out his innocent puppy look. It's a little dusty from lack of use, but there's still plenty there to make grannies weep. Figures. "Dude, I'm immune to that look. And you've got one eye so now you just look retarded. Save yourself the humiliation and tell me the truth."

Sam flushes, but his gaze sticks to Dean's face like glue. "What? Dude, I'm fine."

"Wanna say that in front of Rosey? Cuz all I need to do is flip that kid some cash and she'll tell me the truth."

Sam stares. "You wouldn't."

Dean pulls a crumpled dollar from his pocket. "You _know_ I would."

Sam sighs heavily and drops back onto the cot. It creaks in outrage. "I can feel it."

"It? What 'it'? My incredible charm?"

Sam doesn't even have the decency to laugh. "It. Them."

Oh. So that's it. Sam's not freaking out over the battle, exactly. He's freaking out because he can sense the other Sixers and their demonic friends. "Do you know how long we have?"

Sam's head rolls back and forth. "I don't know. Not long."

"It'll be okay. We'll be okay," Dean says, throwing on his game face. He knows it's almost certainly a lie, but he can't stop himself. He's got nothing else to offer.

And because he's Sam, because he understands, Sam lies right back. "I know."

ooooo

_Now._

Sam touches the Sixer's face to be certain. He comes away with a scarlet palm and the assurance the drawer that was once open is now locked tight. "What can you do?" he asks.

The Sixer staggers and Hannah puts a supportive hand against the woman's back. "Fire." She flexes her hand and a tiny flame burns from each fingertip.

Sam nods. "That's good."

Andy's eyes go wide. "Dude, that's awesome!"

Hannah looks back toward the gate. "That's not."

The metal door hangs at an awkward angle. A demon rips it off the hinges completely and a group of Sixers pour through.

ooooo

_Then._

"Holy shit on a stick, that is just...awesome." Dean stares at the tattoo, then rubs at his face. "Huh. Musta got something in my eye."

"Must have," Craig says laconically.

They're gathered in a knot around Andy, oohing and aahhing over the new tattoo. Most of the swelling's gone down, and Izzy's face gazes out from his arm. In a few fluid lines, Craig captured her image perfectly. She's standing in a long gown, one arm holding a book, the other a long dagger. Her hair fans out behind her, until the tendrils become the horizon and setting sun. Izzy's form is drawn in black ink, but her hair is yellow and the sunset is a perfect mix of yellow, red, orange, and purple. Below the tattoo in dark block letters are the words _now gone, never forgotten._

Luke touches the tattoo gingerly, then looks up at Andy with tear-filled eyes. He sniffs loudly, rubs his nose, and nods his approval. Andy puts an arm around the boy, resting his chin on the top of his head.

Sam leans closer and squints. "What book is she holding?"

Andy can't help smiling. "It's not a book, man. It's a box of Pop-Tarts."

ooooo

_Now._

Dean runs back toward the gate, teeth bared. Ash surges by him, face set, and Dean concentrates on the Sixer digging at the asphalt, and not the fact that the skinny computer freak just high-tailed it past him without even breaking a sweat. The Sixer grunts and rips a chunk of the highway right out of the ground, holds it above his head, fingers bleeding, but triumphant. He hurls it aside and Dean thinks _oh shit._ The Devil's Trap is broken.

The thing that used to be Julia drags itself past the broken gate. A group of Sixers,The One Army soldiers move in, and behind them comes something that looks like a man, but isn't. He whistles to himself, hands in his trench coat pockets. He wears an expression that says he's out for a pleasant stroll, and he's in a damn fine mood. His mouth twists into a grin that makes his yellow eyes shine, and he lifts a hand in a friendly salute toward Dean. "Long time, no see."

ooooo

_Then._

Dean sits at a table in the cafeteria, methodically cleaning his gun. This right here? Is pretty okay. Nothing like concentrating on the important stuff. Jeff sits next him, running a rag over his own weapon. Dean snorts in disgust. "You call that cleaning a gun? My dead grandma could do a better job than that. Hell, Andy could do a better job than that."

"I heard that," Andy says mildly from a nearby table. He's got his nose buried in one of Craig's extra boring books. "And I have to tell you, man. You think you're funny, but the truth is, not so much." Luke looks up from his own book and wiggles his hand in a so-so gesture.

Dean rolls his eyes. What the hell do they know? He's freakin hilarious. He frowns at Jeff's handiwork. "Seriously. It don't gotta be shiny, it has to fire when you need it to." He threads a bore brush down the gun barrel. How many times has he done this in his life? A thousand? Ten thousand? He likes the feel of the brush, of the oil, of the cloth. It's what safety feels like. And home.

Jeff's toothpick bobs in annoyance. "Back off Winchester. I been cleaning guns since before you was born. I reckon I know how to clean my own goddamn weapon."

Dean shrugs. "Don't come cryin' to me when it misfires and you're neck deep in demons."

Jeff shifts the toothpick from one corner of his mouth to the other. "Don't need bullets to kill a demon, Winchester. Didn't your Daddy teach you that?" he asks with a ghost of a grin.

Dean's face darkens. He thinks of the Colt and his father lying on the floor of hospital room. He swallows. "It depends on the gun."

"Dean?"

Dean sets the brush on the table and wipes his hands on his jeans. Monica stands in front of him, face flushed. Rosey stands behind her mother, uncharacteristically quiet. It doesn't take a genius to realize something's off. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I was just wondering if you happen to know where Sam was. Rose wants to ask him something." Monica smiles, her voice casual, but Dean can hear the lie, see it in the way she stands, the way she can't decide what to do with her hands. Mostly, he can hear it because lies've been coming out of his own mouth for the past twenty years.

Worry and paranoia race to see which one can propel Dean to his feet first. The fact that Rose won't look at him makes worry the clear winner. "Did she have a vision about Sam?"

"What? Oh. No. Sam's fine. I mean, I don't know if he's _fine_, but she didn't have any visions. Of Sam. Or anyone else. Just a…a bad dream." Monica's mouth snaps shut and the flush on her cheeks grows brighter.

Rose peeks her head out from behind Monica's legs. She talks to the floor, as if she thinks Dean's beneath the table. "I had a bad dream 'bout a bird."

Dean chews at his lower lip for a moment before sinking back into the chair. A bird, huh? He's pretty sure the kid's not talking about Big Bird or the Road Runner, either. He can feel Jeff's and Monica's eyes on him; Monica's impatient, Jeff's inquiring. He ignores them both in favor of Rosey. He wills the girl to look at him, which works about as well as willing her to levitate. He sighs, and raps the table top with his knuckles. "Check the gym."

ooooo

_Now._

The spark of _maybe_ in Dean's gut flickers once, then goes out. What he wouldn't give for the Colt. He wants to look for Sam, protect him, but the demon's yellow eyes pin him to the ground and he won't (_can't_) look away.

"We can do this the easy way or the hard way," Yellow Eyes says with a cheerful grin. "And I've gotta tell you Dean ol' boy, I'm kinda hoping for the hard way."

A bullet whizzes by Dean's head and the walking corpse (_zombie_) drops for good.   
David screams and crawls toward the dead thing that used to be his wife. His glasses hang askew from his face and he kneels beside her, eyes leaking tears, broken words falling from his mouth.

There's another gunshot and a TOA soldier goes down with a cry. From the corner of his eye, Dean can see Jeff reach for another clip.

"Now, now," the demon says, "can't you see the grown-ups are talking?" He flexes his fingers and Jeff goes flying backwards, arms flailing, trailing curses.

Dean's finger hovers over the trigger and he wants (_needs_) to shoot the freaky-eyed fucker, but he can't, not yet. It's not time.

"Come on, Dean. Just hand Sam over already. He's not much good to you the way he is now, all broken down and one-eyed. He's not much of a hunter, not much of _letifer_ these days, is he? Be reasonable."

Dean's eyebrows jack up into his hairline. "_Reasonable?_ You have _got_ to be kidding me. You wanna be reasonable? Then why don't you haul ass straight back to hell before I put you there myself?"

The demon chuckles. "Those are big words, son."

"Don't you call me that," Dean snarls, "not ever." And timing be damned, he pulls the trigger.


	11. Chapter 11

_As the end is drawing near  
Standing proud, I wont give in to fear  
As I die a legend will be born  
I will stand, I will fight  
You'll never take me alive  
I'll stand my ground  
I won't go down._

You won't break me  
You won't make me  
You won't take me,  
Under blood red skies.

--Judas Priest

Chapter 11

_Now._

The demon's hand moves so fast Dean can't track it, but he knows it moves, because the fucker's standing there holding a bullet in his hand. The demon looks at it, amused, and tosses it in the air. He catches it with a flourish and holds it between his thumb and index finger, the way an appraiser might admire a ring. He whistles. "Nice shot, Dean. Been practicing, I see." The demon raises his voice and flicks the bullet away like a bug. "I'd just like to take this opportunity to point out that Winchester over there is a halfway decent shot. You might want to keep an eye out." The demon chuckles and the noise is like fingernails on a chalkboard. "Hey, that reminds me." The smile straightens into a thin, angry line. "Where _is_ Sam? I'm waiting."

ooooo

_Then._

Sam stares down at the page, but the words crawl like ants. He rubs his eye, tries again, but the letters still won't cooperate. He drops his head onto his chest and kneads the iron muscles in his neck with one hand, rubs at his forehead with the other. The pain (_noise, static, fear_) in his head is worse. His empty eye socket aches. 

He's trying to find some forgotten ritual, spell, sigil that resembles hope. Something that will increase their chances against the coming demons. A Latin phrase, a sentence in Sanskrit, a previously undiscovered symbol to impart safety, or knowledge, or both. But there's nothing except page after page of shifting print.

He shuts the book with a _snap_ and tosses it onto the floor. He doesn't want Bobby's book, he wants Bobby. But Bobby's gone, just like all the rest.

The gym is mostly empty. It's late afternoon, most people are training for the coming battle. The rest are looking after the children, helping the sick or injured, working in the garden or bartering for goods in one of the remaining stores. The people left in the gym give Sam a wide berth. Most people here do. They look at him with a combination of fear and awe that does nothing to ease his aching head. Yesterday, an old man spat at him and called him a bastard and a murderer. Only one of the epithets is true. Later, a group of children playing tag stop their game when he passes and look at him like he's a savior. Sam wants to believe that the old man and the kids are both wrong.

He keeps to himself as much as possible, although its easier said than done with Rose around. Dean understands, thank God. He keeps Sam surrounded by a select few, Andy, Craig, Luke, Ash and Jeff. Their familiarity provides a needed respite from curious—or suspicious--eyes. Sam wants to tell Dean he doesn't need to do that, doesn't need to treat him like he's breakable, but truthfully, it's been a long time since Sam's felt whole.

Footsteps echo on the gym floor and he looks up, expecting (_hoping for_) Dean. It's Monica and Rose. Rosey looks subdued, her hand wrapped firmly around her mother's. She looks so young, so fragile, Sam is briefly thankful he has no children of his own.

The pair thread their way through the sleeping bags, cots, and duct-taped lawn chairs. Sam pats the floor next to him and musters up a smile. "Hi guys."

Rosey positions herself next to Sam, but Monica remains standing. The sincerity of her own smile matches Sam's. "Hi Sam. Do you...do you have a minute?"

Sam spreads his hands, accommodating. "For you guys, always. What can I do for you?"

Monica twists the wedding ring on her finger nervously. She speaks to Sam, but her eyes are focused on Rosey's shoes. "I was wondering if you could talk to Rosey about her dream."

Sam looks down at the little girl, brows furrowed. "You had a bad dream?" He wonders how many times she's dreamed about him. "Or a vision?"

"A dream." She gives an oblong stain on her shirt intense scrutiny. "An' it's dumb cuz it doesn't sound scary when I say it out loud." The girl swallows and her mouth pulls down into a look of misery. "But it was bad."

"What was it about?" Sam asks gently. "I have bad dreams too," he admits.

Rose considers Sam's admission for a long moment and then sighs heavily. It's a sound that's entirely too grown up. "There was a bird, only he looked broken. Like a toy. And his beak was made of scissors, sort of. He kept flying around me and I knew he was gonna…" she flicks a quick look to her mom, then to Sam. "He wanted to hurt me. He wanted to stab me with his scissor-beak. An' I started to cry and I told him 'shoo, go away,' an' he just laughed." She looks at him with wide trusting eyes. "But birdies can't laugh, right? And they don't have scissor parts, neither."

Sam thinks of all the nightmares he's had over the years and prays her future will be kinder. "In dreams, they can do anything."

Rose draws her knees up and manages to look even more miserable. "But then the bad bird said he was gonna kill _you_. And then he flew away. Which was good. But he dropped something and I thought it was a feather cuz I like feathers, even if they're from mean birdies, but when I looked…it wasn't a feather." Her voice trembles. "It was an eye. And that's when I woke up. I put my pillow over my head cuz I don't want that bird to take my eye away." She looks at Sam's eye patch and fidgets uncertainly.

Sam strokes her hair and Monica hands her daughter a crumpled tissue. "I think that dream was a message, Rose." Sam asks the question even though he already knows the answer. "Did the bird have yellow eyes?"

Rosey nods, eyes wide with surprise. "How did you know?"

"I have dreams about that bird sometimes too. It's a blue heron. It's the demon that's...he's…helped make the world the way it is now."

Rose looks at him steadily. "You mean sucky?"

Sam can't help a brief burst of laughter. That's one way of putting it. He nods, smiling faintly. "Yeah. Sucky."

She wrinkles her nose. "So…the yellow-eyed demon is a _bird_?"

"No. It's just a shape he takes in my—or your—dreams sometimes. And you're gonna be safe, Rosey. Your mom is real brave and smart and she's gonna protect you. So am I." He holds her gaze. "We all will. And that eye you saw? I don't think that was yours, sweetie. I think that was mine."

Rosey's mouth forms an exaggerated O of disgust. "Gross!"

Sam smiles thinly. "Gross is right. That demon was just trying to scare you. But don't worry, about it, okay?" She looks worried, and he presses on. "And I'm gonna be safe too. I've got Dean and Andy and all my friends." Sam taps the tip of her nose and the worry is replaced with a toothy grin. "Now you get some good sleep. No more creepy dreams, okay? You can dream of teddy bears and..." he racks his brain for girly things. "And fairies."

Rose rolls her eyes disdainfully. "That stuff is boring. I like castles and knights." She mimes waving a sword. "Knights with big giant swords are the best! We're in a castle now and this is the keep," she explains, gesturing around them. She points toward the doors. "Out there is a moat with a big dragon thing! It eats scissor-beak birds up to a million feet away!" She beams, clearly pleased with this new world.

Monica pries Rose away from Sam. "Come on Sir Rosalot. It's time for bed. You run and say goodnight to the dragon. I'll be there in a second."

Rose runs off, one hand holding imaginary reins, the other still swinging an invisible sword. "Watch out demons! I got a magic sword!" she yells.

Monica exhales and runs a hand over her ponytail. "Is that all? The dream was just…a warning? Of what, exactly?"

Sam reaches for the book. "It means the Yellow-Eyed Demon is on his way."

ooooo

_Now._

"What's your name?" Sam snaps at the wounded Sixer.

"Lauren."

Sam nods curtly. "Okay. Lauren, you can help by encouraging the demons to get out of here."

"By 'encourage' he means set them on fire and stuff," Andy clarifies.

An old man with black eyes throws a nearby hunter to the ground. Lauren points at the demon and a stream of fire shoots from her hand into the demon's chest. The demon howls and scrambles back toward the fence. Lauren wipes a smear of blood from her chin. "I think I can do that."

"Andy, come with me. Hannah, you and Lauren try to see if there's anybody else willing or able to help, and meet us by the gate. Got it?"

Hannah nods. "Be careful." She hurries toward a lost-looking Sixer while Lauren sends another demon stumbling backwards amidst a torrent of fire.

"I will if you will," Sam calls back. He and Andy make their way toward Dean. It's not easy going.

Chaos encircles him. A demon tosses a woman with an angular face and panicked eyes like a doll. A man, no longer possessed, clings to the trunk of a tree, weeping. Ash and several other hunters pick three One Army soldiers off with deadly accuracy. Nessa crouches behind a ramshackle car and empties her rifle into a hulking demon. When the bullets run out she pulls out a silver knife painstakingly etched with Latin. She throws the blade and it flies, sure and swift, into the demon's chest. The demon staggers and falls, disintegrating before it reaches the ground.

Something that looks like a little girl but isn't jitters toward Jeff. Ash drags Jeff aside in time to save his friend, but not himself. The demon latches long claws into his back. Ash screams and drops his weapon. The demon girl falls upon her prey, teeth snapping and claws clicking. Sam thinks _Get. Off._ He shoves the girl-demon-thing through the smoky air with his mind and into the smoldering school.

Andy's voice cuts through the bedlam like a blade, each word imbued with steely authority. "Demonic forces, unclean spirits, all wicked legions, assemblies and sects, we adjure you. Leave this place. We bind you and cast you down into the bottomless Pit from whence you came."

Sam's hand is steady on Andy's arm and he thinks _let this work, please let this work_. Sweat beads on his forehead and cements his shirt to his back. When he shouts "Leave this place," several Sixers are knocked off their feet. Half a dozen demons disintegrate into nothingness, and three more are pulled shrieking out of their human hosts. Pillars of black smoke are sucked up and away, into the wounded sky and out of existence.

ooooo

_Then._

"Okay," Monica says. "Try it."

Vanessa takes a deep breath and concentrates. Left foot in front, right foot back. Heels in a straight line, both knees bent. She rests on the ball of her back foot and points both arms at the target, chest height. She lifts the knife behind her head, swings forward like she's chopping wood and shifts her weight forward. She lets the knife go. Her aim is wide and the knife _thunks_ into the tree far below the painted bullseye. "Shi–"

Monica pokes her finger toward Rosey and Nessa manages a clumsy transformation to "–ugar."

"Hush," Monica admonishes, but her eyes are bright with laughter. "You did much better." She grins. "You actually got it in the tree that time."

Vanessa smiles back, tries to will the tension out of her shoulders. "I know. I just feel like...I'll never get it."

"You will. You _are_. Just remember. You're–"

"Standing on a straight line," Nessa finishes. "Both arms line up, both heels line up. Like I'm walking a tightrope to the target."

Monica nods, pleased. "Exactly."

Ash strides up. He nods affably to both women. "Ladies."

"Any luck with the ham radio?" Monica asks.

At Nessa's expression, Ash explains. "Every morning and night we check the AM and FM frequencies for radio broadcasts." He lifts a shoulder. "Thought I caught some Morse Code for a minute, but then…nothing. Just static." He looks down at Rosey and winks. "But we'll keep trying, won't we?"

Rosey nods. "Gotta find some Meh Tally Cuh."

Ash beams and holds his hand up for a high-five. Rosey slaps his palm enthusiastically.

Monica shoots Ash a long suffering look. "How many times do I have to say it? No Metallica around Rosey."

"Yeah, yeah," Ash says, but he winks at the little girl. She giggles.

Monica rolls her eyes and turns to Nessa. "Do you see what I have to put up with around here? Rose's favorite babysitter is a redneck hillbilly with a mullet."

"I'll have you know I keep my hair in a very attractive ponytail these days," Ash points out, patting his hair. "And Metallica's good music. It's got a good beat." He grins. "And it's easy to dance to."

Rose proceeds to jump up and down, head bobbing like it's about to fall off. Vanessa stares. Either the kid is having a seizure or she's dancing.

Ash nods approvingly and flashes a thumbs up. "Nice moves, little lady."

ooooo

_Now._

The yellow-eyed demon claps his hands in mock appreciation. "Well done, Sammy. Well done. You and that midget sure make quite the team." He flicks his hand and Andy jerks backwards, but Sam's ready. He braces for it, thinks _no_ and _stay here, dammit_. If he lets go Andy's as good as dead, so that means he's not. Letting. Go. Simple. He clamps his other hand around Andy's arm and holds his friend steady. Andy screams, and Sam's afraid he just broke his friend's arm, but there's no _snap_, no bone or blood. There's just Andy, gasping for breath, still intact, face ashen, feet on the ground.

The demon looks thoughtful and nods slightly. "Is that what you think? That you can save your friends? It's a nice thought, Sam. It's a lovely thought, really, but I'm afraid it's not exactly accurate." He lifts his arms and a wave of something (_wind? sound?_) sends Jeff and a dozen other hunters through the air and smashing through windows, throws them against buildings. "You don't want to come with me because you're afraid of hurting people, is that right? That's very noble Sam, but don't you understand? You kill whether you're with me or not. Look around you. Look what you've brought to this place, to these people."

Sam keeps his eyes on the demon, he won't take the bait. He didn't start this. This isn't his fault. (_Not this time._) 

The demon rolls his eyes. "Oh sure, destroying demons is fine and dandy, but what about the meat suits, huh Sam? Do you think we're walking around in plastic?" He touches his face gently. "No sirree, Sammy. This one is nice and fresh."

"Don't you listen, Sam," Dean growls. "Don't you listen. He's just trying to mess with your head. We're trying to save lives. He'd just as soon kill us all as look at us and you know it."

"I don't give a fuck what you're wearing," Lauren shouts, and a cable of fire arcs toward the demon. He catches it like a rope, one-handed, and pulls Lauren toward him. The fire dissolves and Lauren screams and stumbles, falls to her knees. A soldier steps out from behind the demon, and even through the dust and smoke Sam can see who it is. It's Jason.

Andy screams _don't!_, but his words are paper and they blow away. Jason rests his hand on Lauren's head, almost tenderly. Her body jerks, limbs flailing, and then she slumps forward, face first. Dead.

Sam breathes rapidly through his nose, heart hammering. _No. Nononono._ This is wrong. All wrong.

"Did you think you saved her, with that little _Simon Says_ magic trick?" the demon asks derisively. He waves his hands and Nessa and Hannah are pulled before him, arms pinned to their sides. Hannah's face twists in terror, but Nessa stands tall, face stoic.

Dean positions himself in front of his brother. He lifts his chin, lip curling. "Let them go."

"Sure thing," the demon says, full of good cheer. "Just hand over Sam and we'll get a move on. I don't know if you realize this, but I've got a pretty full agenda. Places to go, people to kill. I didn't come to Ass Crack, New Mexico for the sight-seeing, Dean-o. I'm just here to collect my wayward soldier." The demon turns flat ocher eyes on Sam. "What's it gonna be, Sammy? Are you ready to come home or are you still AWOL? How about a little encouragement, huh? You wanna see me break your little friends like a piñata?" The demon rubs his hands together. "I wonder what's inside." He rolls forward on the balls of his feet like an excited kid. "I'm hoping for Tootsie Rolls, myself."

Hannah and Nessa huddle together. Despite her tears, Hannah lifts her head in defiance, mirroring Vanessa. Nessa struggles to throw another knife, but her arms won't cooperate.

David's mutterings segue into sobs, and he strokes his wife's skeletal hand. The demon huffs an exaggerated sigh of annoyance and gestures sharply toward the weeping man. David's head twists abruptly and Sam can hear the _snap_ of his neck breaking from where he stands. David falls forward onto his wife's body. "Can you believe that guy? Jeez, what a downer," the demon laments. He crosses his fingers and grins at the frozen women. "Here's hoping for something tasty."

A rock flies through the air with a crack and smashes one of the Sixers flanking the yellow-eyed demon. The Sixer clamps his hands to his eye and collapses with a shriek. A second rock hits a Sixer in the forehead and he drops like Goliath. A third fist-sized rock smashes into a woman with beetle-black eyes. She scowls and scans the area for the culprit. Before she can spot Luke and his baseball bat behind an overturned bench, Dean shoots her between the eyes. The demon screams in rage, but her words fade away as a thin stream of black smoke pours from her mouth.

The yellow-eyed demon speaks through clenched teeth. "Sam Winchester, your little friends are starting to piss me off." He waves his hand and a gun flies from a nearby Sixer's belt into his hand. "Let's see if I can move things along." Before Sam has a chance to speak, to _think_, the gun goes off and Vanessa drops, blood spouting from her head. The gun fires again and Hannah falls, her blood spattering polka-dots on Sam's shoes. "You might think I pulled that trigger, Sam, but this is on _you_." The demon points the gun at Dean. "Whadya think, Sam? When I shoot Dean, do you think he'll be able to catch the bullet like I did?"

ooooo

_Then._

Nessa tries again. And again. And when she hits the outer edge of the target she's so excited, so _relieved_ she actually shrieks "I did it!"

Monica beams. "I knew you could!"

Nessa massages her aching hand and turns to check for Owen and Lisa. Owen and Rosey are sword fighting with bent sticks. Lisa's nowhere to be seen. Nessa doesn't want to worry about the girl, she tells herself she's not responsible, but it feels like a lie because if she doesn't look after her, who will? David can barely look after himself.

Monica catches her expression and glances toward Rose, then back to Nessa. "Something wrong?"

Nessa shakes her head, walks to the target and pulls out the silver knife. "Not really. I just…I was looking for Lisa. I feel like I'm some kind of half-assed de-facto Mom to her—and Owen—and I have no idea what I'm doing. When I'm not terrified by demons and diseases I'm terrified of seriously messing up the kids." She sighs. "This isn't supposed to be my life, you know?"

"First of all, _you're_ not messing anyone up, so get that thought out of your head. Secondly, I don't think any of us want this life."

"I know, that's not want I meant," Nessa says guiltily. "I just mean…I feel so…fucking clueless. And I hate it."

Monica smiles weakly. "Welcome to the club, hon. We're all clueless."

Nessa rolls her eyes. "Oh come on, I've seen you with Rose. You're a wonderful mom."

"I don't know who—or _what_—you're comparing me to, but thanks," Monica says with a grin. "And I know you feel alone, but you're not. We can help. _I_ can help. Look, you keep practicing and I'll go check on Lisa, make sure she eats something."

Nessa's throat burns, suddenly tight, so she just nods. "Thank you," she manages. "I'd really appreciate that."

Monica claps her hands together. "Good. I'll be back in ten minutes." She points to the target. "I expect you'll be hitting the bullseye every time from now on."

Nessa stares, horrified.

Monica grins, eyes crinkling. "_Kidding_." She's still chuckling when she walks away.

Nessa watches the older woman go. Owen sees her watching and waves. Nessa waves back. And then she turns back to the target and thinks _left foot in front, right foot back_.  
ooooo

_Now_

Lisa stares at her father's body, slack-jawed and blank-eyed. She blinks slowly, sluggishly, and lifts her face to Sam. He can't hear her, but he can read her lips. _Why?_ she asks. Jess' voice rings in his head, echoing Lisa _Why Sam, why? Why Sam, why?_ Sam swallows. He looks at Nessa and Hannah and his eye burns with hot tears, his throat constricts to the size of a straw. 

"What's it gonna be?" The demon demands and Sam knows this is it, it's now or never, because there's no fucking way (_none at all_) he's letting Dean die. There's been so much (_too much_) death already. He lets go of Andy and moves beside Dean. No more.

"No," Sam shouts, the word a deadlier kind of bullet than what's in his gun. Power surges through him, no, not power, _purpose,_ and sound recedes until the only noise is the adrenaline-fueled hammering of his heart. There's a pressure in the back of his head. In his chest. It's like being underwater. Sounds are muted, but he has perfect clarity. Dean calls his name and he can feel the ripples of sound move toward him. He wants to tell Dean he's okay, that this is all perfectly normal. This is simply

_my destiny this is my_

He can see everything so clearly, it's seeing with both eyes, with a hundred eyes: a handful of demons there, twice that many Sixers near Yellow-Eyes. A few of them harass hunters. Some of the soldiers Andy freed fight back, protecting a battered-looking Jeff and an unconscious Ash. One of the TOA soldiers is telekinetic like Hannah is (_was_), and a broken bicycle zigs toward Dean, but Sam thinks _no_ and it stops, hanging in the air like a giant rusted insect.

_destiny this is my destiny I will _

Every object in a ten foot radius shudders, then lifts into the air. First one foot, then five, then twenty. Rocks zoom in a complicated trajectory above their heads. The bicycle spins. A bench hovers. Broken boards from the school drift like leaves. A lost shoe dangles, yellow shoelaces flutter like wings.

_save you I will help you I am_

Sam can feel the vibrations of the demon talking and he sends the bike rushing toward him. The demon moves his hand to send it away, but it comes like a missile, deadly and unstoppable and lands mere inches away, knocking Jason and another Sixer over like startled bowling pins.

_sorry for everything and this is my chance my destiny_

Sam thinks _fall _and the orbiting rocks rain like hail upon the demons and Sixers. The gaping hunters and civilians are spared.

Ashes blow around him, grey specks fall in Sam's hair, on his face and eyelashes. The acrid stench of smoke is heavy in the air, the smell of destruction. The air is hazy with dust. Vanessa and David and Hannah and dozens of other bodies lie before him, demons, Sixers, hunters, friends. The pressure (_hum, voltage, power, purpose_) in his head increases and a tear tracks through the soot on Sam's face.

ooooo

_Then._

The three of them sit in companionable silence. Dean hands Sam some aspirin and he swallows it dry, makes a spectacular bitchface, one of his better ones, really, and drops his head into his hands.

"How's your head?" Andy asks.

"How's your chest?" Sam returns through his hands and Andy chuckles.

"Touché, dude."

"You two sound like a couple of whiny old ladies over there," Dean says. "Thank God you've got me. I'm the secret to winning this thing, you know," he grins, wishing it were true. He'd do anything to take this off Sam's shoulders. Maybe after the battle, they can relax, take it easy. Just for a while. They can have a few days of nothing more to worry about than locating Cheetos that haven't gone stale. No headaches, no guilt, no fear, nothing but some well thought-out pranks, baked potatoes and Ash's private stash of beer.

Andy's fingers rub absently at his chest and Dean tosses a playing card at him. "Knock it off, you big baby."

Andy looks at the card and rolls his eyes. "In one breath you call me a grandma, in the next I'm a baby. Which is it?"

"I think the word we should be looking for is 'crazy'," Sam mutters. "Clearly, we're crazy to be sitting here playing poker."

Dean lifts an eyebrow. "So does that mean you don't want your card?" To Andy he adds, "Nice poker face, by the way."

"Shut up," Andy says. "I'm particularly worried about you winning my_imaginary_ money."

Dean slides a card toward Sam. Sam glances at it briefly before lowering his head and digging his knuckles back into his temples. Dean wants to tell Sam to lie down, to try and sleep, but there's no point. Every time he tries to push Sam to rest Sam acts as if Dean's voice is only audible to dogs. Or Andy. He's starting to retreat into himself again and that scares Dean as much as any oncoming demons or Sixers. Maybe more. Sam's complexion is almost gray, the skin beneath his eyes a mottled purple. He looks like he's already been through a war (_he has_), and Dean doesn't know what to do.

Sam sighs, as if reading Dean's mind. "I'm fine dude. Just flip the cards up."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Sure you are. If 'fine' means 'you look like shit.'" But he discards the top card from the deck and flips the next three face up onto the floor: the five of hearts, the six of spades, and the ten of diamonds.

"Speaking of shit," Andy grumps, and tosses his cards at Dean. "I'm out."

"Me too," Sam says.

Dean frowns at the pair of Jacks in his hand. "Dude," he protests, "you didn't even look at the cards."

ooooo

_Now. _

He'll never admit to Sam, not even with his dying breath, but when Sam starts doing an impression of a ginormous--and uglified--Jean Grey and making with the floaty shit and the freeze frame, Dean is well beyond terrified. There's not a word for the amount of scared shitless he is. Seeing the yellow-eyed demon is creepy as hell, sure, but he's seen him before. Superpower Sammy, on the other hand, is a new one. Sure, the kid's flung demons around and made Andy sound like the great and powerful Oz, but watching stones fly around like little planets makes Dean's gut clench. He can't help thinking back to that cramped kitchen with all those plates and chairs floating in midair.

What does it mean that Sam can do this without any real training? It's not like there's a Jedi Master handy for this kind of supernatural shit. But no matter what Sam's doing with rocks or chairs or bikes, it's still Sam. It's still Sammy. So he wrestles the dread firmly into the back pocket of his brain, because this? Is not the time to freak out. This is the time to kick that demon's ass. He risks a quick look for Monica and Craig. They're both unhurt, which is good, and they're in position, which is better.

Sam's face shines with sweat and something else. Something...ethereal. Which is a pansy-ass fairy girly word that he'll never admit knowing, much less say aloud. But it fits. The fear that's been snoozing in Dean's stomach snaps awake and gives his guts a hearty squeeze before clambering through his rib cage and up into his throat. Sam's eye is fixed and unmoving and for a long horrible (_endless_) moment Dean thinks _what if he's gone again, what if?_

Andy calls Dean's name above the din, and flashes him a bug-eyed _what the fuck is happening_ face.

Dean's shrugs helplessly. _I don't have a fucking clue_.

ooooo

_Then._

Sam leaves the cards on the cot and gets to his feet, and Dean forgets all about Texas Hold 'Em because Sam moves gracefully, lithe, and not like an old man. His face has lost that ever-present pinched look of pain, it's smooth and clear and his eye is bright and full of something Dean can't (_doesn't want to_) read. He turns his neck side-to-side and it pops once, twice. He holds his arms out toward Dean and Andy in a _get up_ gesture. Dean and Andy exchange glances. Dean doesn't need the help, but Andy does.

"Guys. Listen. I just wanted...I want to say...thanks. For everything," Sam blurts, and Dean tries out Sam's I-can't-hear-you trick. If this is going where he thinks it is, no way is he listening. But Andy's an emo little bitch like Sam and he hugs the giant freak like Sam's magnetized and Andy's made of iron.

"Hey, man, you're totally welcome," Dean returns, all smiles. "Remember that time I shot you in the head? Cuz you're right, dude, good times."

Sam flashes Dean a look that says _stop saying words, asshole_, and grabs Dean's arm. He drags him close and throws an arm around him. "Hey!" Dean yelps. "I was just kiddin'. Watch the fabric. Watch the _arm_. What the fuck?" But he knows, he _knows_ what the fuck it is, and he thinks if he pretends, if he ignores, maybe the force of his denial (which is pretty freakin' _huge_, by the way) can keep them safe for just a little longer.

"Shut up," Sam hisses into his ear. "You never gave up on me. Not even when I gave up on myself. So thank you for that." Sam's breath is hot against Dean's face and he wants to pull away. He also wants to stay here forever. He doesn't need Cheetos. He doesn't need anything. Just Sam. Okay, fine, Andy can stay too.

"You stuck with me through everything. You could have kept going once we got here, left me behind."

"That's the stupidest–" Dean huffs in exasperation, but Sam interrupts before he can really get going on just _how_ stupid.

"So thanks," Sam says, which somehow sounds a lot like _shut the hell up_.

"I wanted to leave you," Andy says blandly, "but I was stuck in a hospital bed. By the time I could get around--" he shrugs, "too lazy." He pats his arm. "Plus I had to show off the new tat."

Sam grins. "Sucks to be you, then."

Andy nods solemnly. "It sure does."

Sam blinks at Dean and warbles out, "I just had to tell you...you know, that I.." Sam takes a deep breath but Dean pokes him hard in the chest.

"That I'm completely awesome and way better looking than the two of you sad sacks?" Dean makes his best _look how hot I am_ face to demonstrate. "I think pretty much everyone knows that by now." He steps back and shoots Sam a hard look. _Don't do this._

Sam stares back, stubborn as hell. _I have to. I love you._

Dean's shoulders slump and he looks away. He sighs and scratches his chin awkwardly. He counts to five, adding _Mississippi_ to each number. Finally, he lets his gaze slide back to Sam's. _I love you too, Sparky._ He thinks maybe Sam didn't pick up on the Sparky bit, but that's okay. As long as he knows the rest.

Andy wipes his eyes and grins like he's just scored the best weed ever. "I love you guys too."

"Yeah, well, if you so much as think about getting a tattoo of my handsome face on any part of your anatomy whatsoever, you will seriously regret it, Gallagher. I'm warning you right now." And if he doesn't get out of here soon he's gonna start weeping like a little girl. Shit. Sam's fingers tighten on his arm and he's just about got a killer insult loaded on the tip of his tongue when Sam's face tightens. Not in pain this time, but concentration.

"Listen," Sam whispers, and all the good humor, the camaraderie is gone. Just like that.

Dean listens like Sam says. He can hear a woman (_doesn't sound right, something's wrong_) screaming. The screams sound like bent nails and rust and he gapes at Sam.  
"What the hell…is that?" Now he can hear David yelling. And Ash and Jeff. There's a whole snarl of voices outside.

"It's starting," Sam says simply. "Get your weapons. And the bullets. They're ready."

Dean grabs up his .45 and a shotgun. He slides a knife into the sheath in his boot. He tries to catch Sam's attention, tries to send him mental messages of _you can do this_ and _you're gonna get through this_, but Sam's already stalking toward the door like he's been waiting for this moment his whole life, and Dean thinks maybe he has.

ooooo

_Now._

The hum inside Sam's head bursts out of him, bright as sun. He bends that light, uses its glow to hold everything still. Steady. Calm. The effort doesn't hurt exactly, but the pressure in his head goes up another notch.

"You're not my destiny. You're not my Commander. You're _nothing_." Sam's voice is low and dangerous and the gun sweeps out of the demon's hand and shatters like porcelain. "You have no power over me or my brother."

The demon looks momentarily nonplussed, but recovers quickly. He slides his now-empty hand into a pocket. "You can't kill me without the Colt," he says indifferently, "not for good. So what's the point?"

"Maybe not," Sam agrees, "but I can sure as hell inconvenience you." Sam's smile is deadly. "You're done here." Sam's voice is brittle with rage. "Go back to hell."

The demon rolls his eyes. "You—"

"You're done here." Sam repeats. He takes a deep breath and shakes himself, he feels like he's coming out a trance. Breaking the surface. He gives the signal. "_Now_!"

Time unfreezes. A gunshot rings out like a bell and a red stain blooms on the demon's chest. Monica ducks back behind the charred wall of the school.

"Consecrated bullets," Sam explains. "Filled with holy water. Engraved with protective seals. It's a real bitch to make them." He shows his teeth, and if he could see his own expression, he wouldn't recognize himself. "That's gotta sting."

Craig fires the second shot and it hits the demon in the forehead. He rocks backwards, arms thrown wide. Jason charges toward the professor, but Andy's _stop_ and force the Sixer onto his hands and knees. The two remaining Sixers drop onto their stomachs, faces pressed to the ground.

Sam nods almost imperceptibly at Dean, the signal for the third shot. Dean fires and this time the bullet hits its mark. The demon lands flat on his back, mouth open in stunned fury. There's no sound, only smoke spiraling away. "That was for Mom and Dad," Dean whispers hoarsely. He glances at his brother. _And for Sam, you son of a bitch._

The smoke whips back and forth like a great black snake, and then it's gone.

ooooo

When the smoke vanishes, there's a new kind of chaos. This one involves Andy and Jeff dealing with the Sixers, Craig and Luke trying to comfort a stone-faced Lisa, and Monica—as well as a handful of other hunters--performing as much first aid as their limited supplies and even more limited knowledge allow.

"That was…that was really something, Sam," Dean says huskily. Sam hasn't moved for the past five minutes. His complexion is the color of milk and he's staring at the sky like he's half expecting the demon to put in an encore appearance. Sam's jaw is set and he's radiating a _don't touch me _ vibe, so Dean doesn't. But he's definitely invading Sam's personal space, cuz that's what big brothers do.

Dean coughs, clears his throat. "You freaked me out a little back there," Dean admits, careful to keep his voice light. He's willing to admit he was freaked, but he's not about to admit how _much._.

Sam finally looks at him and Dean can see the tension drain from Sam's posture, his face. He blinks and rubs a hand across his mouth. "Dean. I think…I think we did it." Sam looks absolutely stunned, as if he just discovered he can speak a new language, or fly.

Dean grins. "No way, man. _You_ did it. If you hadn't kept Yellow Eyes busy with your freaky telekinetic shit we wouldn't have been able to pull it off." He hopes his voice reflects exactly how proud he is.

Sam grins back. "You're a good shot."

"Damn skippy."

Sam laughs and so does Dean. It's a sound that still makes him feel like he can do anything. Making Sam laugh might be the only thing better that killing monsters. There will be time to mourn Hannah and Nessa later, time for doubt and worry. But this moment is theirs. He's not used to being on the winning end of things, and it's a nice change of pace.

"What do you think it means? Is he gone for good?" Sam asks like the giant wet blanket he is.

"Way to suck the feel-good out of the moment, Sam." Dean shrugs, a smile ghosting his face. "I'm voting for the gone for good option. But at the very least it'll take a good long while for him to crawl back out of hell." Dean glances toward the Sixers. "And if there's a rematch, our chances don't look half bad."

Sam's face clouds and he chews at his bottom lip, that brief flash of ease gone. His jaw sets. "I need to talk to Jason."

Dean's eyes narrow. "Okay, actually, Sam? You don't. I thought you were done with that whole punish yourself bullshit."

Sam shakes his head, forehead creasing. "It's not that. I just need to make sure there's…I need to make sure the windows are shut."

Dean quirks an eyebrow. "Is that your lame way of saying you wanna check if he's still, you know, all natural born killer or not?"

Sam tosses a half-hearted bitchface at Dean and heads toward Andy. Dean chuckles and ambles after him. It's crazy how happy Sam's Mr. Pissy Pants routine makes him nowadays, and it's no wonder. Given the choice between nearly catatonic suicidal despair and Cranky McBitchy, well, he'll take bitchy-ass Sam any day of the week.

Some of the Sixer soldiers are still in stumbly despondent mode, some of them look a toe nail's width from bawling, and a few stare into space like there's a hidden message on the horizon. Jason is one of the latter.

Dean gets a bad feeling just from looking at the guy. He calls after Sam. "Dude, wait up." Sam slows his pace so Dean can catch up. "Just do me a favor, don't let that guy touch you. I saw what he can do."

"You have no idea what he can do," Sam says grimly. He gets that _I suck_ look in his eye again and Dean wonders if Sam first had that look before everything went to shit or after. It's not a look Dean likes. He decides there's something about the look on Jason's face he likes even less.

The Sixer nods to Sam. "I didn't think I'd see you again."

Sam looks pained. Dean wonders if he's thinking of what happened to April. "Yeah."

Jason bows his head and rubs his temples. "I feel so…I don't know what to do. The things I did, Sam." He lifts his face and his eyes plead. "Help me." Jason sways unsteadily.

Sam steps forward and grabs Jason's arm, supporting him. And really, that right there, is _so_ Sam. Always wanting to help, to make up for shit, to be Mr. Sensitive. Dean sees the glint before Sam does. Sam's not looking for it, he's too busy being nice. But nice guys finish last, isn't that what they say? The knife is in Jason's hand. Dean opens his mouth to warn Sam, his hand reaches for his gun but Jason is _fast_. He pivots and the blade cuts Sam's throat like butter.

The warning shrivels and dies on Dean's tongue. His brain grinds to a halt. But his hand still seems to work because his finger squeezes the trigger and Jason drops with a thud. Gravity's playing favorites because Sam falls slowly. He's got both hands to his throat but the blood runs through his fingers like it's got a mind of its own, like it's just been waiting for this chance to escape. Sam's hands are bright red, his shirt's already soaking through. Dean falls to his knees and catches Sam. Sam's a fucking giant, but he's light, he's a fucking _feather_ and Dean doesn't feel anything but Sam's hair tickling his face and the warmth of Sam's blood on his trembling hand.

_Fuck, no_ Dean thinks. This isn't right. We won. We _won_. "No," he babbles, "No, Sam. It's okay, I'm here, I'm right here, Sammy and you're not going anywhere." His voice is broken because it's hitching up and down like he's just hit puberty, but it doesn't matter. He's trembling almost as bad as Sam, but he holds on, as if holding onto Sam is enough to keep him alive. There's an army of Sixers standing around, gaping like morons, all of them useless. He doesn't need pyrotechnics or super strength or visions or telekinesis, he needs someone who can fucking _help_. He needs a needle and thread and a pint (_a fucking liter_) of Type O blood.

A sliver of Dean's mind registers the fact that Andy's blubbering. He's screeching at the Sixers to _get out of the fucking way you assholes_and Craig is screaming Sam's name and Rosey is crying and Monica is saying _hush baby, hush_. Sam's eye rolls in its socket and it feels like years before it manages to focus on Dean. Sam lifts a slick shaking hand to Dean's face. The blood from Sam's neck flows faster, like water from a faucet.

Dean clasps Sam's hand and presses it to his stubbled cheek and thinks _Sammy don't leave me, please don't_. He thinks, _this happened before, we were in the kitchen, I didn't want to shoot you but I did. You were on the floor and I was so afraid you were going to die but you didn't. You lived. You lived then and better fucking live now. Don't be a goddamn quitter, Sam. Don't._

Sam tries to talk but all that comes out of his throat is a horrific burbling sound that makes Dean want to eat his gun right then and there. Pink froth bubbles between Sam's fingers and Dean starts to cry.

Someone's kneeling beside him and they're trying to move Dean's hand from Sam's neck and Dean yells "Fuck you! Get off him!" but somehow the words don't cooperate and his venomous shout collapses into a desperate moan.

"I can help." Luke's voice is thin and calm and it's a voice Dean's longed to hear, but not like this. It's a voice Dean desperately wants to believe. The boy's small freckled hand gently pushes Dean's rough one aside. "Let me try, Dean," Luke says softly and Dean does, because he has no other choice. 


	12. Chapter 12

This is it guys, the final chapter. Thank you so much for all your wonderful reviews and encouragement. I've had an amazing time writing this! hugs

* * *

_Through these fields of destruction,  
Baptism of fire  
I've watched all your suffering  
As the battles raged higher  
And though they did hurt me so bad  
In the fear and alarm  
You did not desert me  
My brother in arms.  
_

_ --Dire Straits_

Chapter 12

_Now._

Andy paces the length of the hall while Craig leans against the grimy wall, shoulders slumped. Andy's been doing this on and off for two days now (_forever_), but he doesn't know what else to do. Dean won't come out of the room. Craig rubs his face and Andy wonders when the professor got so old. He looks like he's aged about ten years overnight, and Andy thinks the way things have been going, maybe he has.

There are exactly fifteen steps to the window at the end of the hall. There are three rooms, and a closet (_empty_) labeled _Medical Staff Only_. There are exactly twenty-two steps to the elevator (_which doesn't work_) and thirty-one steps to the stairwell. And the entire time Andy moves (_he can't sit still, he can't_), Craig stands there, arms folded, and waits.

ooooo

_Then._

Luke's hand is on Sam's neck but his eyes are on Dean. He whispers "It'll be okay."

It doesn't feel okay, though, because Sam's hand goes limp in Dean's, and Dean doesn't want to think about what will happen if Sam dies because life without Sam isn't a life at all. Sam convulses and his limbs jerk, his heels drum against the ground. Dean blinks the tears back, trying to see, he's got to _see_, dammit, because he's got to make sure Sam's still breathing. He wipes his face savagely against his sleeve and that's when he spots the thin wire of red across Luke's throat. He stares, dumbfounded as the cut widens into a deep gash that mirrors Sam's. Andy whispers _oh my God, what the fuck _and Dean can't answer because he doesn't know. Luke doesn't answer because his own blood is running (_spilling_) down his neck, onto his arms, onto Sam's shirt. But he smiles.

ooooo

_Now._

Andy stands at the dirty window and looks out onto the little square below. Owen and Rosey are playing demons and hunters. From the look of it, Owen is the demon. Rosey waggles her fingers at him and shouts _get out or else_, and Owen drops to the ground and rolls around energetically, waving his arms. Rosey giggles and joins him in the grass, and pretty soon they're trying to do somersaults, demons forgotten. Andy wants to forget with them.

Lisa sits on a bench nearby, legs drawn up, hands clasped around her knees. Monica sits beside her, one arm around one of the girl's thin shoulders. Lisa's hair obscures her face, all he can see is a glimpse of her glasses, and Monica talks earnestly to her, gesturing with her free hand.

Andy turns abruptly away, he doesn't want to see any more. He rubs his thumb against the blond braid circling his wrist and wants Izzy. She'd be able to make him laugh. Take his mind off everything. He clenches his fists and stalks over to the door, pounds on it. "Dean, it's me." Which is stupid, because obviously Dean _knows_ it's him, Dean knows he's been hovering in the hallway like a homeless moth for the past forty-eight hours, just like he knows Craig is there. But Andy says it anyway, because he doesn't know what else to say. "Please, just let me in." He glances at Craig's stony face. "Let _us_ in."

There's no answer, just the quiet, steady drone of Dean's voice from deep inside the room. Andy rattles the doorknob, but the door is locked. Any one of the hunters could pick it, hell, Andy could probably pick it by now though osmosis alone, but he doesn't. He looks at Craig again and Craig shakes his head, just once, barely a hint of movement, but it's enough. _Give him more time._

Andy wants to point out that's all they've been doing is giving him time, nothing but time, but he chokes the words back and paces some more.

ooooo

_Then._

Craig's on his knees beside Luke, his dark face gray, tears leaking from his eyes. "Luke. Please." He holds one hand out to the boy, a desperate, pleading gesture.

But Luke just smiles and shakes his head, his hand and arm completely scarlet now and gently--very gently--pushes Craig's hand away. He nods at Craig, and his smile is beatific, and he's saying _it's okay_ and _don't worry_ and _goodbye_ all at once.

Andy whimpers _oh God, oh God_ and Luke winks at him, he fucking _winks_, and Andy claps a hand to his face like he's just been punched and sobs hard enough to turn his face beet red, to make his nose bubble snot.

Dean knows he should push Luke away, he should _shove_ him away, but he can't. He's frozen in place, he can't move, can't blink, because if he does something will go wrong and whatever this is, whatever gift or curse Luke has won't work. And as much as Dean likes Luke, maybe loves Luke even, he loves Sam more. He _needs_ Sam more and he'll stop pretending he doesn't, he'll tell everyone, he'll tell anyone how much he loves Sam if he can just keep him. _Please, just a little longer_. He prays to God, he prays to Luke, he prays to the stones and the sky. He prays to anything and anyone that might be listening. _Don't take my brother yet. Not now._ Why let Sam live through the gunshot, through the endless hell that followed, just to take him now?

Dean watches the blood drip down Luke's arm, across his thin t-shirt, and understands. He understands that Luke healed Izzy's cold, that he healed Sam's hand, and he healed Lisa's leg. Luke stopped talking when he couldn't save his mother's life because given the time, given the chance, he _could_ have saved her. Dean can still hear the sound of Luke's frenzied screams after Izzy died and understands those cries were the sound of Luke's guilt, the sound of his failure to save her. Dean understands the set of Luke's shoulders and the determination in his wide blue eyes and knows Luke is not planning to fail again.

Dean clutches Sam's hand, unable to let go. Luke meets Dean's eyes and shrugs. "I miss my mom," he croaks and his voice is fucked up from whatever's happening and Dean thinks _I miss my mom too_ and he knows this isn't right, he should stop this boy, this little boy, this _child_ from giving his life for Sam's, but the horrible truth is he doesn't want to. He doesn't _want_ to.

Luke sways and slides forward bonelessly on top of Sam, but still he keeps one hand on his throat and one hand on Sam's. Craig leans forward and plants a gentle kiss on top of Luke's head and whispers "I love you."

"Don't let him die," Andy begs, and Dean doesn't know if he's talking about Sam or Luke.

ooooo

_Now._

Ash is well enough to hobble around on a pair of duct-taped crutches by the next afternoon. He takes a few teetering steps out of his room, Jeff on one side of him, Monica on the other. A harried-looking silver-haired man watches Ash's progress and purses his lips after a few careful steps. "That's enough," he says. "Back to bed."

Ash rolls his eyes. "Give me a break, doc. I'm practically runnin'." He's sweating heavily, and looks like he's only a couple steps from death's door. But he's got a huge smile plastered across his face, and he's aiming it at Jeff. He notices Andy at the other end of the hall and leans awkwardly against the crutches. "Hey." He looks from Andy to Craig, takes in their expressions. "What's going on?"

Andy shoots Monica a _thanks for nothing_ look, and she looks properly chagrined.

Jeff clears his throat. "Ash. Why don'tcha do what the doc says?"

Ash frowns. "Cuz I'm the only doc I gotta listen to," he says and lifts an eyebrow. "Are you guys holding vigil for me out here or is there something I should know about it?"

Andy studies the floor. He wonders how many scuff marks there are, how many nurses and doctors have walked this hallway over the years.

Ash pivots on the crutches and stares hard at Jeff. "I thought you said the demons are gone. The yellow-eyed bastard got vacuumed back to hell or whatever."

Jeff pulls a toothpick from his shirt pocket and slides it between his teeth. "Yep. That's what I said."

"Then what am I missing?" He nods toward the closed the door beside Craig. "Who's in there?"

Monica sighs. "Dean."

Now both eyebrows shoot up and worry drains the already faint color from Ash's face. "_What?_ How bad is he?" He looks for the actual doctor but the man disappears into Ash's room.

"He's fine," Andy says quietly.

Ash nearly drops one of the crutches. He reaches for it and winces, eyes wide. "Is it Sam? Is Sam okay?"

Andy rubs his face and sighs. God, he's tired. He can't remember a time when he wasn't. Can't imagine a time when he won't be. "No."

Craig speaks for the first time and his voice sounds rusty. "The boy's dead," he says simply.

ooooo

_Then._

He's underwater, trying to swim. And he's cold. The water is freezing. He tries to see where he is, reach the surface, but everything's dark and his lungs are bursting. Someone's holding his hand and he thinks _Dad_, but he knows instinctively that's wrong because Dad never held his hand, Dad put things _in_ his hand, all kinds of thing: guns, rope, crossbows, lock picks. There's only one person who holds his hand when he's scared (_like now_), there's only one person he trusts. He squeezes the hand and the hand squeezes back and he knows it's Dean, Dean has him, Dean's gonna pull him out of the water any minute now, any minute, cuz Dean would never let him drown.

Sam blinks, and he can see, but he's still under water because everything's blurry and fuzzy and he still can't breath, but he wants to, he _needs_ to, because his chest is breaking and his head feels all wrong and he knows he's swallowed water because his mouth is full of it, he's choking on it, and his throat burns, Jesus Christ it hurts like a _bitch_.

Now he's on his back and Sam can't figure out when Dean dragged him out of the lake, but here he is, gasping for air like a fucking fish and his chest heaves and his hands are still wet, his shirt is soaked, it sticks to him like he's been under water for days. He blinks, and for a split second he thinks he's still drowning, because all he sees is blue, but then his brain starts to cooperate and supplies him with the word _sky_, and the wet sound in his ear isn't waves, it's someone crying. Sam claws at his throat but nothing happens and he lifts his hand, looks at it, and everything snaps back into place because it's not water, it's blood, _his_ blood and he's dying and he was a fool to trust Jason and shit and _shit_.

He needs Dean, needs to tell him it'll be okay, needs to say goodbye and _I'm sorry_, because he doesn't want to go, which is kind of hilarious since he's wanted to die for months now, maybe _years_, but now that death is right here, ready and waiting, Sam isn't quite so keen on going. Dean's looking at him and his face is red and wet like maybe _he's_ been under water too and Dean says _breathe_ and Sam thinks that might be the best idea he's ever heard.  
His back arches and his head smacks against concrete, but the pain is nothing compared to his need for air. His eye rolls past Andy and Craig and Luke but he doesn't see any of them because his throat is a tiny little straw and the oxygen he wants is a weather balloon and it's not gonna work it's not gonna--

There's a hand on his throat and it's not his.

There's a hand on his throat and it's. Not. His. He clasps it with his own hand and it's small and it can't be Dean's or even Andy's and--

His lungs finally, _finally_ pull in a ragged breath and it hurts, but it hurts less with the second breath, and not at all with the third. The fire in his throat goes out and his head clears and he feels (_good, can't be right because that's crazy, that doesn't make sense_) better and he pulls the hand from his neck and it's connected to an arm and the arm belong to Luke. And Luke is sort of sprawled across him and he's not moving and he thinks

_No._

the kid must have passed out because seeing someone almost die, someone you care about has gotta be terrifying, especially to a kid

_Please, no._

who's already had a shitload of horror to deal with and everyone is looking at him, or not looking at him, Andy and Monica and random people he doesn't know, and Craig's face

_He's still drowning. That's what it is. He's just confused. There's nothing going on with Luke, Luke's fine and Sam is dying, it's just taking longer than he thought, but he'll wait, he's patient._

is buried in Luke's back and he wants Luke to wake up now, wants him to move and Sam scrambles backwards, tries to get away, and see, he _is_ in the water because there's a jagged noise, like a dying engine, and he thinks _boat_.

Sam looks around, desperate for the boat, and there's Dean, reaching for him, and he's got that low voice, that _Sam's in trouble_ voice and Sam doesn't want it, doesn't want to listen because hey, they sent Yellow-Eyes back to hell and they're at a lake and it's time to party, it's time to--

Sam swallows and his hands go to his throat and he can feel the fresh ridge of skin tissue there, and his fingernails scrabble at the scar, he claws at it because he needs to undo this, needs to take it back, _take it back, whatever Luke did, he needs to stop_, because Luke's just a kid and Sam is supposed to save him, not the other way around.

Andy says _Sam, wait_ and Craig's cradling Luke's body and Sam can see the terrible wound across the boy's throat and Sam scratches harder, deeper, but his nails are too short and his skin won't break and Dean yells and slaps at his hand, grabs for his wrist but Sam keeps crawling through the forest of arms reaching for him and struggles to his feet. He can still hear the broken motor and it revs closer, louder, and he realizes, finally, as his breath hitches and he takes a stumbling step backwards, the noise is coming from him. He puts his hands to his head and pulls, _pulls_ at his hair, as if he can reach in and physically pull out the memory of what's happening. All he comes away with is a bloody fistful of hair.

Dean walks toward him, hands up, cautious, still talking, each word made of calm and logic but Sam shuts it all out. Dean tries to smile, tries to convince Sam this is for the best, this is right, he says, _You're okay, now. You're all right._

Sam shakes his head. No. He's not. He turns in a circle, suffocating from the weight of everyone's gaze and pulls at his hair again, and he welcomes the pain. His eye patch falls off and he kicks at it. "You should have let me die!" he bellows . He stomps on the patch and everyone's watching, staring, _judging_ and no one understands how he feels, not even Dean. Because as many people as he's killed, he's never killed a child. Not until now.

Andy moves toward him, but Craig is still on the ground, head bent and silent and Sam wants to say he's sorry, he wants to say he doesn't understand how this happened, that he didn't mean it, _doesn't_ mean it, doesn't want it. He doesn't want Luke's life. He's not worth it. He feels the ground slide beneath his feet and his heart thunders in his ears and each beat is using Luke's blood and each time he takes a breath he's breathing Luke's air and he screams again because there's nothing else he can do.

He's still screaming when Dean reaches him and pulls him close and then he's screaming into Dean's shoulder and he wonders if he screams loud enough, will Luke hear, will he know he's sorry?

A gruff voice says _for Christ's sake, shut him up_, and Dean's voice snarls back, _shut your fucking mouth before I break your goddamn face_, and then Andy's there as well, one on each side of him and Sam wants to scream, _needs_ to scream, but his voice isn't cooperating and his knees give way and Dean's there, like always, to hold him up.

Sam walks between them, head bowed. Voices rise and fall (_like waves_) and Sam can still taste blood in his mouth (_Luke's blood, now_) and he wants to run, to get away, but there's nowhere to go because the person he most wants to hide from his himself.

ooooo

_Now._

Ash's mouth drops open and Jeff hovers at his elbow, ready to help his friend if he needs it. "_What?_"

"Not Sam," Andy clarifies, "Luke."

Ash looks from Andy to Craig. Craig looks back, eyes hard, lips compressed. "The little brown-haired boy who didn't talk?" Ash asks.

Craig nods. "That's him. He saved Sam's life."

Ash works himself over to the wall and leans against it. "I'm real sorry about your loss," he says. "He seemed like a good kid."

Craig turns away abruptly and walks to the window. He leans his forehead against the smudged glass.

Andy shakes his head and swallows hard. "He was a fucking _awesome_ kid."

Ash holds Andy's gaze for a long moment. Then he says, very quietly, "So's Sam Winchester."

ooooo

_Then_.

Dean and Andy hustle Sam over to the hospital and up to the second floor. At least there are actual doors here and a semblance of privacy. And privacy is exactly what Sam needs. That, and a boatload of valium.

Sam sits on the bed, his back against the wall, hands loose in his lap. He's still covered in blood. Dean wants to get him into the shower but Sam won't budge. He just sits there like a statue and Dean feels all the progress they've made, all the headway of the last few weeks swirling right down the toilet. Dean pulls at his bottom lip, thinking. Whatever Sam needs, he'll do it. He'll listen, he'll commiserate, but he _won't_ buy into Sam's guilt trip. Dean's the one who's actually guilty of anything, he could have stopped Luke, but he didn't. This is his guilt to bear, not Sam's.

Andy paces around the room, generally getting in the way, and Dean finally sends him out to check on Craig. Once Andy's gone, Dean sits beside his brother and tells him "This isn't your fault. Do you know how many lives you saved, today, Sam? In the long term, hundreds, probably thousands."

Sam tilts his head and he grins and Dean doesn't see the blood or the mangled eye or the scar. He sees Sammy Winchester, the gangly kid with the too-big eyes and too much hair, the kid who asks too many questions but admits too little. Sam lifts his hands and lets them drop back into his lap. "I couldn't save Luke."

"It's not your job to save everyone. We _can't_ save everyone, Sam." Dean says the words and they feel smooth and rounded coming out of his mouth. He's said them so many times the syllables are polished; he can almost see the ruts worn in the air. He needs new words, better words with sharp edges to pierce through Sam's wall. Sam closes his eye and shuts Dean out and Dean tries again. "You _saved_ lives, Sam. Luke's death isn't your fault. Neither was Izzy's. You've got, like, this fucking list of blame, Sam. And it's wrong. I know what you think, about Mom and Jess and everyone else. But they didn't die because of you." Dean leans forward, grips Sam's arm, wishes there was a way he could inject the words straight into Sam's brain. "They didn't."

"Luke did," Sam insists, "and so did the others. So many others." He rolls his head back and forth against the wall, his eye sill closed, like he thinks if he can't see Dean, maybe Dean can't see him. Sam opens his hands and holds them palm up. "This is Luke's blood." He raps against his chest with a fist. "And in here, too." He yanks at his shirt, stretching blood-stained fabric, a low growl in his throat. "I don't. I don't know what to do. I. Can't. _God._." He digs his knuckles into his temples and his eye opens, rolling around the room, as if looking for the familiar streamers of Dean's words. His voice is full of hairline cracks and the pain punches through, shattering Sam's words. "Why did he do it?" He turns a terrible look on Dean, a look that sends ice cubes rattling into Dean's stomach. "_Why?_"

"Because he _wanted_ to help you," Dean says, and his own voice sounds just as cracked, like it's already broken and been glued back together. "He _wanted_ to save you." Dean puts his face by Sam's, ignores the ice, and admits the truth. "And I wanted him to save you."

"Why?" Sam asks again, like it's a mantra. The word is small but deadly—like a .22 caliber bullet—and it breaks Dean's heart more than a little that Sam doesn't—or can't--understand.

"Because nobody wants to give up on their heroes," Dean says hoarsely and he's not talking about Luke. Sam's head drops forward and his shoulders begin to shake.

ooooo

Monica knocks on the door, a soft _tap-tap_. She's got a plastic tray of peanut butter sandwiches, potato chips and fresh water. She doesn't expect an answer, usually she just leaves the tray outside the door, but the door opens. Monica's so startled she nearly drops the food. Dean blinks out at her. He looks tired and his five o-clock shadow's just about ticked over to _beard_ but he offers her a faint smile. "Thanks, Monica."

Monica skips past the pleasantries. "How is he?"

Dean shrugs. "Sleeping. Finally. He can fake the snoring, but I don't think he'd fake drool."

Monica smiles. "Good. That's good." She tries to think of something else to say, and her brain latches onto the tray in her hands. "Is he eating?"

Dean waves a hand. "Not much."

Monica knows Dean—and Sam--well enough by now to know that's Dean's polite way of saying _no_.

Monica offers the tray with a sigh. "This probably won't convince him, then."

Dean peers at a sandwich. "Peanut butter, huh? Chunky or smooth?"

"Chunky."

Dean grabs one and shoves a quarter of the sandwich into his mouth. "Good enough for me," he mumbles thickly.

Monica laughs and she almost wishes Rosey was with her. "Oh, and guess what? We've had over a dozen people show up in the last two days. The highway's been clear, no attacks. Jeff and a few others went out to, um, clean the telephone poles but they were still empty."

Dean lifts an eyebrow, clearly pleased. "Hey, that's great."

Monica nods, glad to share the good news. "I know. But the _really_ great part is there's some old farmer who brought a cage with two chickens." She smiles, excited. "They way he's talking, I'll be able to make you eggs tomorrow."

Dean stops chewing, eyes wide. "I would sell my spleen for scrambled eggs right about now." Monica laughs again and Dean grins, peanut butter in the corner of his mouth. "What good's a spleen, anyway?"

The door to the stairwell creaks open and Andy and Craig emerge into the hall. Andy nods at Monica and Dean, the smile on his face painfully hopeful. "Hey guys."

Craig smiles too, but the smile's tacked on, just for show. He walks up to Dean and grabs him by the collar and pulls him bodily out of the doorway.

"Craig," Dean sputters, "I'm sorry, but this isn't—"

Dean's younger and faster than Craig, but the professor has the element of surprise on his side. And height. He pushes Dean against the wall and takes off the smile. His eyes are pins and they hold Dean fast. "I've been waiting three days," he says slowly. "Three days. I've seen Sam do some miraculous things, but he's sure as hell not Jesus, and I am _done_ waiting."

Dean's gaze flicks from Andy to Monica, then back to Craig. Craig's lips twitch and for a minute Dean's afraid he's gonna put that fucking smile back up but he just says "Eat your lunch, Dean. Sam and I need to have a talk."

The sandwich turns to acid in Dean's stomach, his mouth tastes like dirt. "Craig. Don't…don't hurt him."

Craig's eyes are full of reproach. "Now I know it's been a hard couple of days and I know you're worried about Sam. So I'm going to save us both a lot of trouble and pretend you didn't just say that." Craig points a finger toward an empty chair in an empty room. "Sit," he says. "We won't be long." And he pushes the door to Sam's room wide and steps through.

Dean stares after him, open-mouthed, like his jaw just broke. Andy looks much the same way.

Monica bites her lip, unsure what to do. She takes a step toward Dean. "Do you want me to get Ash?"

Dean snaps his mouth shut and she can hear the click of his teeth. He shakes his head. "No." He walks toward the worn chair Craig gestured at and lowers himself into it. He glances at his watch, rubs a hand over his newly-bearded chin, scratches his cheek.

"Then what?" Monica asks.

Dean casts a glance at Andy. "I'll take a turn at waiting. I owe Craig that much, at least."

Monica's eyebrows draw together. "Why do you owe Craig?"

Dean drops the sandwich back onto her tray. His gaze is mild but the tone of his voice implies he's talking to someone with the brain power of a pothole. "Because my brother's still alive and Luke isn't."

ooooo

Sam wakes to find Craig at his bedside. The older man watches him, hands folded in his lap, expression inscrutable.

Sam doesn't know what to say, a hundred regrets slide through his head, but the words that come out of his mouth are weak and fuzzy with sleep. "How long?"

Craig shrugs. "Not long. Ten minutes, maybe."

Sam sits up cautiously, half expecting Craig to throw a punch, half expecting another story about Saul or Paul or some other dusty relic from the Bible. Sam tries to stop what's coming with "I'm sorry."

Craig nods and picks up Sam's eye patch from the table. Sam watches Craig turn it over in his hands and Sam thinks of eyes and scales, blindness and loss. Craig sighs and hands Sam the patch. Sam pulls it on without a word. The elastic band pulls at his hair. Sam clasps his hands nervously and struggles for something meaningful to say; he's lost and ashamed and now he's drowning in guilt, not water. "Craig. Um." He adjusts the elastic from the eye patch and waits for Craig to say something but Craig just sits there, _sits there_, watching, silent. Sam wants to smash his head against the wall, throw himself out the window, hide in the bathroom. Instead, he sits on the bed and rubs his hands together like he's still trying to get Luke's blood off, and in a manner of speaking, he is. He takes a deep breath and clears his throat. He tries again. "I didn't mean…I'm sorry that..." He swallows and there's a hot stone in his throat. He can't get a full sentence past it. Word fragments hang between them like twine and Sam thinks _rope_ and _noose_. He doesn't know how to make this better, how to undo what's been done. He's trapped inside this cramped room with Craig Thomson, and whether the door's open or closed, there's still no way out for either of them.

Craig's fingers unfold and he reaches out, puts a cool dry hand on Sam's arm. "Stop it." His eyes are headlights and Sam's caught in the glare. "Stop apologizing, Sam. Do you hear me?"

Sam can't speak past the stone, so he nods.

Craig runs his hands through his hair and sighs again. He pushes the chair another inch closer to the bed, lowers his gaze back onto Sam. His eyes are bloodshot and when he grips Sam's arm it feels like a warning. "I'll tell you this once, son. One time. So you need to listen good. You ready?"

Sam stares at him, nerves twisting into complicated knots, and nods.

"What Luke did isn't your fault. It's not about _you_. It's about _him_. You need to stop acting like you're responsible for the whole damn world. You're just a man, Sam. You don't have to die for anybody's sins, especially your own. You're a good man, but that's _all_. It's true you can do things some men can't. I've seen you. But still, you're just a man, like the rest of us. Like Luke. Luke's death isn't an excuse for you to go jumping off the deep end," Craig says, "and it makes me want to slap you into next week to see you carrying blame that doesn't belong to you. That boy gave you a _gift_, he sacrificed himself because he cared about you, because he _chose_ to." Craig's voice is soft but there's iron around the edges. "I don't have to agree with his choice, I don't have to like it, but I will _not_ have you turn what he did into another round self-flagellation." Craig's nostrils flare and his hand is a vise. "I won't allow that, Sam. I _can't_."

Sam opens his mouth. He wants to protest that's not what he's doing, not what he means to do, but Craig shakes his head. "You'll get your turn," Craig says, "but not just yet." Craig releases Sam's arm and leans back in the chair, grips the peeling arms. He exhales slowly, puffing air through his cheeks. "I never found the right woman, Sam. I never settled down, never had any kids besides my students. But then the world ended and God saw fit to put me in charge of that boy." His smile is a curved blade. "Luke." Craig shakes his head and makes a sound that's a cross between a snort and sob. "That's not even his real name." He grips the chair arms so tight his knuckles crack. Grief sits in every line of his face, but he masks it with anger. "Did you know he could do that?" Craig demands. "Did you know he healed your hand, that he was just…just _pretending_ to hit the tree after Izzy died?"

Sam swallows, ashamed. That's part of the problem. He didn't know and he should have. He _should have_. "No."

"Did you know he healed Lisa's leg?"

A hot tear leaks from Sam's eye. He shakes his head.

"Neither did I," Craig admits, deflating. He seems to shrink into the chair, like the weight of his sorrow is pushing him down. "I didn't have a damn clue. I just...didn't see it. Didn't _want_ to see it, maybe." Craig leans forward again, rests his elbows on the knees of his faded slacks. "I believe Luke would've saved Izzy if he'd had the chance. But he didn't. So he saved you. If he hadn't been able to save you, he'd have saved someone else." Craig's eyes are bright with unshed tears, and he blinks them back. He rubs the tip of his nose. "He was just waiting to get back to his momma. And he chose to give you his life on the way back to her. That's a _gift_, Sam. And I sure as hell don't want you spitting on that gift by being too thick-headed and stubborn and _stupid_ to realize it was Luke's choice and not yours. Luke saved you because he wanted you to live. He thought you _deserved_ to live. If you want to repay him or thank him, or honor him, then you better get the hell out of this room and live your life. You better keep moving forward and making a difference."

Craig looks hard at Sam and says roughly, "Because believe me, son, you made a hell of a difference three days ago. You _make_ a hell of a difference." He manages a weary smile. "And if you think your destiny is done, if you think we don't need you now, well then you're even stupider than I thought."

Sam's not sure how exactly how stupid he is. He lost the ability to calculate that equation long ago--usually he just relies on Dean to tell him. But to hear Craig say he's still needed, that he makes a difference feels…something. It feels like something that's not entirely bad. Something that doesn't hurt. Something he can live with.

Craig sits in the chair for a long moment, watching Sam. Waiting.

"I want to honor him," Sam finally manages through the stone in his throat. "I do."

"Then don't sit up here like you're in some kind of time-out. It's not fair to you or your brother. For that matter, it's not fair to any of the people who care about you." Craig nods toward the bathroom. "So take a shower, put on some decent clothes and come pay your respects. Luke's not the only one who died you know."

Craig's words sting and Sam flinches. "I know."

Craig's tone softens and he puts his hand over Sam's, gentle now. "I know you do." Craig shoves the chair back and stands. "I'm sure your brother's trying to crawl in through the keyhole so I'm going to give him a break and open the door. You good with that?"

"Yeah." Sam thinks about fathers and sons and the fragility of love. He thinks about words that hurt and silences that hurt even more. "Craig?"

The old man glances back, his eyes muted, no longer spotlights. "What?"

"Thank you." Sam still feels guilty and _wrong_, like he's living on (_Luke's_) borrowed time, but he understands where Craig is coming from. And no matter what Craig says, Sam will always owe Luke. And paying his respects, coming out of this room won't reduce his debt, but it will ease Craig's loss. And that matters too.

Craig puts a hand on the doorknob and stands with his back to Sam. "You know, Luke's not the only one I think of like a son," he says softly.

ooooo

_Now._

He walks in silence, dusty boots down a dusty road. The sky's the pale blue of a robin's egg, and the air smells of dirt and sweat and the promise of rain. The rusted shells of cars are gone, dragged away and hammered flat. Now they're walls and ceilings and tables. The school is mostly rebuilt, although it's not much of a school now. It's more of a barracks, and it seems like one or two people turn up daily, eager for shelter and news and the chance to dream. The chance to hope.

ooooo

_Then._

Sam goes to the mass grave for a week straight. Dean goes with him the first time. Twice, Sam goes alone. Once he goes with Craig. There are flowers and broken dolls and runes and tiny hand-carved totems. The freshly packed dirt is littered with pieces of goodbye. Lisa sits beside the mound for hours at a time, sketching pictures, writing letters. She leaves them in the dirt, anchored by bits of quartz and the weight of her loss. Sometimes Sam sits with her and they share the silence. Sam composes notes to Luke and Hannah and Vanessa the way Lisa does for her parents. Sam's notes always stay inside his head, and they always say the same thing: _I'm sorry._

ooooo

_Now._

The mural along the east wall is nearly done; Craig and Lisa are down to the detail work now. It's a wall of faces in red and black and blue and yellow. Luke grins out at the street, and so do Izzy and Hannah and Vanessa and a half dozen others. There are protective symbols and flowers and a row of footprints links them together like a rainbow chain.

Dean walks over to Craig, admires his work. "Wow. This is just…" He doesn't know what to say. Isobel smiles at him, mischievous, and it's like she's _right there._. Maybe she is. "Shit, man. I don't know whether to laugh or cry or what."

Craig dips a fine brush into a can of black paint and lifts his eyebrows. "I often do both." The corner of his mouth pulls upward. "At the same time. Makes painting awkward."

Lisa doesn't say anything--she's been walking in Luke's silent shoes lately--but she offers a polite smile when Dean asks if she's seen Sam. She points back toward town.

ooooo

_Then._

Five days after Sam follows Craig out of the hospital room, Ash picks up a ham radio transmission. A dentist who's been living in his basement hasn't seen a demon in over a week. Ash is so excited to make contact he knocks his crutches over and falls on his ass. He sits in the mud like he's on a goddamn throne and babbles directions to T or C.

ooooo

_Now._

Dean waves goodbye to Craig and Lisa and heads toward the ramshackle house behind the market. Ash is outside the bar tinkering with a radio transceiver, a cane and a half-empty bottle of beer both within easy reach. Ash offers Dean a vague salute as he passes. Dean rolls his eyes, but he salutes back. He jogs up the crooked porch and bellows into the house. "Sam?"

There's no answer. Shit. It feels like he's always looking for Sam lately. Sometimes, Sam leaves him a message. A scrap of paper taped to the cracked mirror above the sink. _I'm waiting. Hurry your ass up._

Today, there's a note fastened to the door with a piece of electrical tape. _Hey bro, where are you?_

Dean blinks at the note, and his stomach doesn't drop and his hands don't sweat and he doesn't think of a dead woman swinging from a tree. He thinks of a promise made and wonders how fast he can run.

ooooo

_Then._

Dean, Ash, Monica and Jeff spend the month following the battle trying to hammer out various committees to oversee shit around town. Dean can't figure out how the hell he got drafted into helping. He suspects it has something to do with too much alcohol and poor judgment on Dean's part. Or Ash's. Possibly both. The only good part is there's a hot chick who's trying to round up teachers. Half the town wants Sam in charge of something or other. The building committee and the fledgling board of education—along with pretty much every hunter around--seem to feel if Sam is telekinetic, building houses should be a snap. If he has a loud-ass voice of doom, he can make the kids learn Latin that much easier. Dean tries to pawn the teaching bit off on Andy, but Andy's not interested. He's working with the food co-op and the farmer types to try and legalize marijuana. So far there isn't much opposition, since nobody has any.

Sam avoids the meetings and cultivates an air of careful oblivion whenever someone tries to get him to join this or head that. Sam wants no part of it. He's happy to help, but he refuses to be in charge of anything. Which Dean thinks is bullshit, because he seems happy enough to boss Dean around.

"But he'd be perfect," Monica laments during one of the endlessly boring educational meetings. "Who else has that kind of knowledge to teach the kids?"

Dean sits up, an idea percolating. "I know a decent theology professor."

ooooo

_Now._

They're gathered in a small park behind the hospital. The park is more mud than grass, but no one seems to care. Dean's impressed: there are fifteen people waiting today, eight men and seven women. He recognizes a few faces from earlier in the week.

Monica is demonstrating how to throw knives for three of the women. Andy's sitting on a stool well out of throwing range, patiently showing a teenage boy how to clean a gun. Jeff draws various seals on a large sheet of metal with a piece of chalk, explaining the uses and protective traits of each symbol.

Sam sits farthest away, his back against a tree. A small group surrounds him, listening intently. He's been teaching simple exorcisms and cleansing rituals to the new members of Truth or Consequences for the past few weeks. Dean walks toward him, unable to keep the grin off his face. "I don't know how you do it, but this stuff sounds almost interesting when you talk about it."

Sam looks up from his book at the sound of Dean's voice. He's still too pale and too thin. He eats less than Rose, and he doesn't sleep enough. But the nightmares don't come every night, and sometimes (_like now_), he smiles all on his own. Sometimes he smiles like Dean's still the best big brother in the world, like he's seven years old and life's a fucking treasure map full of big black Xs. Dean tells himself the sight of that smile is worth the price of pulling the trigger inside that kitchen. Dean takes comfort in the familiar (_too brief_) flash of dimple and the knowledge Sam is safe and happy here. Well, safe, anyway. And the fact he's willing to spend a few hours training new hunters has got to be a good sign.

"Too bad it won't when you start talking," Sam says and Dean laughs. He sits next to Sam and their shoulders touch—just barely. Dean talks about spirits and wendigos and rawheads. The tiny audience listens raptly; it's been a long while since anyone's even _considered_ being afraid of something besides a demon.

Twenty minutes pass, and Andy wanders over to listen. He's heard most of these stories, hell he's _in_ some of them, but he sits there anyway. Dean thinks of endless months of campfires and salt circles and full moons and despair. A year ago, he'd have never believed he'd have Sam back (_alive!_), that he'd be training a bunch of hunter wannabes. He'd have never believed he'd be capable of giving anyone hope, mostly because he had none to give.

Dean sits beside Sam, and there's a stick goosing his ass and he's thirsty and he's pretty sure Andy just tried to flick a pebble at his head. He sits beside Sam, and he has hope, because Sam _is_ hope. And Dean's never going to admit that piece of touchy-feely truth to Sam, but he has a feeling Sam already knows. The bitch.

They've still got a long way to go, and Dean's not sure where they'll end up. Each day is another step closer to Sam getting better. Dean's not sure he cares what the future holds, what Sam's destiny is, as long as they keep on keepin' on together.

Dean sits beside Sam, and there's nowhere else he'd rather be.


End file.
